Xìkùn va kú yùvi
Té xà’à ra nîxíyo và’à vi ñâ’â
ra saá kì’ìn ìxtàn ká’nu yu iin ixí xìnì ñá
ra xà’à ñá kùnu ñá iin xìkùn ká’nu ndiáá:
nîxîkòò ñà yùvi.
Ndîkâ tùñú’u kû’ni ña isa ñá
ñà vâ’â ná ndì’í xà’à ñá ndìà nìxàà
saá tu ñá taávì ña dú’ú mitú’ún ñá
ra nîkîku nîkîku ñá.
Xí’ín ita ndiakua chin ita vìtù xà’à nîkìkù ñá ña ndú’ú xînî ñá,
ña kúú ini ñá,
sì’và nùù ini ñá:
ra nùù xìkùn ndiáá
ndûkûîtà na tîââ chin nà sì’i ì’và,
kásokó nà níma nà tá xá tîvîñu’u,
xà’à ná xíka na.
Nîyà’à kùìyà,
xà’nu tùñú’u
ra saá nîndòñù’ù va ìxtàn yú
a saá tu kûxìká kîndòò isa va ñá nùú yùví.
Ndí té xíní yù tìùn kóyô rí ndiví ñùu
ra kúndá ini yù chi vixi xìnì va ñá ìxtàn yu kú ña kóyô
xíniñú’ú ndaki’in yu ñà
ra kunu yu ndiá ñà kunì yù xí’ín ña.
The world is a huipil
In the beginning there was nothing
and my infinite abuela took a strand of her hair
and she started knitting a large, black huipil:
and it created the world.
She attached her endless loom to the Sabino
so it could resist the time
and the storms of solitude
and she knitted and knitted.
In chains and braids
she was weaving her memory
her desires,
her roots,
and from the black blanket
—little men and women made with strings,
larrying our spirits on their shoulder like a lightning bug—
we begin to walk.
Time passes,
the Sabino grew,
and my infinite abuela began to unravel bit by bit,
or went away to some extreme of the loom of the world.
But every time I see shooting stars streaking across the night sky,
I know they’re my abuela’s canas that fall
so I may pick them up
and sew my desires with them.
¿Ndiá kèè yó, nána?
Nána, ¿ndiá kèè yó va?
¿Ndiá mí nìndùvà yó va?
¿Ndiá mí ra nîña’a ké xàtìà tiásì’í yo va?
Ra, ¿ndiá chí kùà’àn yo va?
Ndisaá xìtìàn té túvì
ra xá’á ndáyè’è kìì nùù ndiví,
nà ká’àn kú tákúndi’i va na xí’ín yu nìñà’à ké sa yu
ra xíni sò’ò yu yu’ú na
ndáxikónii yu ìxtà nùù xíyò, ñúú yu kìsì nduchí nínu nu’u.
Ndákanini yù xà’à yùví
ra xító’ni yu nùù ñu’u
xító’ni yu nùù ixán, nùù yòsó, nùù tutún, nùù ve’e, nùù nû’û,
nùù ibási’í yu, nùù kú’và yu,
ra ndñakanini yù ¿ndiá ké kèè yó?
In kìì ra nîndàtù’ùn yú ña si’í yu
Ndí nîndákuin ñá yu’ú yu ra saá kûtáxìn yu’ú va yu.
Sàkàn vichin lo’o nîxà’àn yù itu,
xândia yù ndixí, ndâki’in yu ikín minú,
saá tù’va kânata iin ra tîââ sâtó’ni ndúxa rá yù’ù chí ndiví,
sâchúnchíin ndúxa rá yù’ù ñu’ú
sâkúndasí ù’vì ra yù’ù xí’ín ña yùví.
Ndiá ichí va ndâkatia ndiaa yù xìkùn ndíxi yu.
Ñàkàn ndákanini yù:
¿ndiá kèè ra yûvî iká, nána?
Where are we from, Abue?
Abue, where are we from?
Where did we sprout from?
What spit us from where, Abue?
And where are we going?
Every morning since I was born,
And the horizon begins to paint the day,
everyone tells me what to do
and I hear them
while my tortillas rise on the comal,
while the beans boil on the stove.
I think about life,
and I watch the fire,
and I see the masa, the metate, the kindling, the house, the sun,
my parents, my siblings,
and I ask myself: where did we come from?
Once I asked my mother,
but her silence fell upon me.
Not long ago, I went to la milpa
I cut some corn, picked some ripe squash,
and a man appeared who forced me to look to the heavens,
to scrape the floor
and to hate the world, more and more.
I had to wash my huipil on the way home.
And I ask myself:
Where did this man come from, Abue?
Ìxtà
Ñá lo’o, ki’in nda’á ndiása
ra ta’ví xá’á:
ndiko ña sáa ini kun xí’ín ña kú’vì kun nùù yòsó.
Ndaki’in ixán nùú ra kixtá ña,
ndìkun saá ra kandia ñà
in ko’ndo in ko’ndo tiin ña
ra katunda’á ña,
sákávà tìvì ña nùù nda’á kún.
Kama và’à koto ndàtà ñá,
chéé và’à sa kún ña níì và’à sa kún ña
ra sákana ña nùù xíyò
ra ndaxikónii ña ná kèè sè’è ña ná kasùn ñà.
Ndaki’in ña, chikaa và’à ña, sá ndaa tá’án ña.
Ki’in ña, chikaa nduchpi nùù ña, chikaa iba, chikaa tìà’á.
Kaxi ña, sákuachi ña, kokó ña…
Ñá lo’o, yùví yó’o ra tá íyo iin ìxtà ká’nu íyo ña:
niña xí’ín ndiee yo niña xí’ín ña tíxú’vì yo kánda ña kùà’àn ña.
Tortillas
Child, take the metlapil
and grind the nixtamal:
Grind up your coraje and your pain on the metate.
Collect the first masa and knead it,
the second time around,
take the dough in your fists,
flatten it,
shape it round in your hands.
Faster so the dough doesn’t crack,
make it as big and thin as you can,
and put it on the comal,
flip it, allow it to rise and fall.
pick it up, pile it up and save it.
Take it, add beans, quelite, salsa,
bite it, chew it, consume it…
Child, life is like a big tortilla:it’s made of coraje and pain.
Yù’ù yó’o tákúndi’i nà sì’ì
Yù’ù kú ñá ìxtàn,
yù’ù kú ñá si’í,
yù’ù kú ñá sè’è,
yù’ù kú ndi’i nà sì’í
ra tákúndi’i na sì’í kú yù’ù.
Kùà’à ní kìì
sà xáa na yù’ù,
sà táxìn nà yù’ù,
ndàtá na yù’ù,
xândia nà kûñû yù,
ndîkoo nìì yú ra nîxìtìà ñà,
nûnû ña kûñû yù,
nûnû ña ñuu yù,
nûnû ña xànì yù,
nûnû ña nùù níxìkà yu,
nûnû ña nùù yáa yú
ndí nîkúchun na nda’và nà yù’ù
chi nîxá’ndia nà tîô’ô yu.
In táxììn kùndiéé yu.
In táxììn xàkù yu.
In táxììn nìkà’àn yù.
In táxììn kâku sè’è yu.
Nùù sá’vì,
ini kava,
sàtà xíkì,
mà’ñú yì’ì,
tiañu itu,
xìtìà yùù sàvî,
mà’ñú ñà tû’vâ,
nùù xíyô,
ini kìsì,
nùù kána tìàkùìi,
ini chîchî kùà’àn tìàkùìi sàvì,
té ndâxikónii yu ìxtà,
té sâkóyò yu nii.
Kûnî ka’mi na yù’ù xí’ín ñû’û,
xí’ín ñu’u,
xí’ín kìì,
xí’í ñà táxììn,
xí’ín tû’ûn,
xí’ín tìàyú sakókàvà sòkò,
xí’ín tùmi,
ndí nìkúchun na
chi xí’ín ñu’u su’un kûxîî sàtà yú
té sàkàn ndákàndà mií na.
Ndìà ndûkú na ndasi nà sùkùn yu
xí’ín yáa ná xí’ín ìchì nà
xí’ín yùùtátá nà
xí’ín kùè’è yu’ú na.
Ndísu kûndiéé va yu:
ndâkâ’má yù nùù tâkùè’è yù,
ndâsi yù nùù yàndà yu,
chîkavâ’â yu ñà sáa ini yù,
xâkinxiyo yu nùù tû’ûn ñà’á nà,
ra ndâkundichi yù
ra ndôndiso yu tàchì yú
sâkándí yu ini nà
tá xîkùn mií na ñu’ú ká’ndì.
Sakuí’ná na kùìyà ñuu yù kâ’án na
sâkuáchi na nii isu yù
ra xàtìà ñà ñà iní´yùvi;
kùndàa ini nà sàtà va yú ndíso yu kùìyà ñuu yù,
xí’ín tû’ûn va yu tiákú ñà, ini va yu ndú’ú vâ’â ña,
saá tu ini tákúndi’i ñà sì’í vàlì káku va
ndátiaa ñà mií ña, ndúkùà’à ñá ra ndìà nii na kûchún
sándi’i xà’à ña.
Me, you, them, all of us
I am the abuela woman,
I am the madre woman,
I am the hija woman
I am all women
and all women are one.
Throughout time,
they damaged me,
they hurt me,
they broke me,
they cut me,
and my blood poured out and spread,
and it stained my body,
my pueblo,
my dreams,
my footprints,
my tongue,
but they couldn’t extinguish me
because they never cut my roots.
I resisted in silence.
I cried in silence.
I spoke in silence.
I stood in silence.
In the shade,
inside a cave,
behind a mountain,
in the forest,
in the milpa
next to the rain stone,
in the middle of a ritual,
on the comal,
in the boiling pot,
where the waters arise,
in a ditch below a waterfall
while I flipped tortillas
while I removed the grain from the mazorca.
They tried to burn me with the sun,
with fire,
time,
silence,
words,
the cross,
the pen,
but they couldn’t,
because my skin was made of the sacred fire,
while they were just larvae.
They even tried to plug my throat
with their strange tongue and sword,
and their mirror
and their hate.
But I resisted:
I stitched my wounds,
I covered my scars,
I saved my coraje,
I rejected their offense,
I stood up,
and raised my voice,
I broke their silence,
gunpowder, like them.
They thought they could steal my story,
tearing apart the deer skin
and spreading it across the earth.
They don’t know my story is written on my skin,
in my words and in my heart,
and in every girl that is born
this story is rewritten, multiplied and made eternal.
Translated from Tu’un Savi to Spanish by Florentino Solano
Translated from Spanish to English by Jennifer Lynn Saucedo as part
of a translation course taught at St. Mary’s University in San Antonio, Texas
by LALT Indigenous Literature Correspondent Christian Elguera
