They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds. — Mexican proverb
Once, we were born of the same trembling star — ash, wind, song, and seed — ancestors whispering one word: remember.
But some forgot.
They built walls out of fear and named them safety.
Sharpened ignorance and called it order.
Unleashing a political Pandora, uprooting the specter of supremacy — white-robed, flag-wrapped, haunted by an ancient lie: some are meant to rule, some are meant to kneel.
Listen — you can chain a body, but not the drumbeat in its chest.
You can silence a mother’s tongue, but her lullaby will rise from every border wall you build.
We’ve seen children counted by numbers instead of names, heard mercy rattle in cages —and still, the seeds remember.
Beneath concrete and grief, they lift green fists toward the sun.
Because memory is defiance.
To remember is to preserve truth, spirit, dignity — in the face of forces that twist, erase silence.
Forward.
Steady.
Calm.
Oh Lord, I want to be in that number.
Marching to the rhythm of an old song.
A change is gonna come.
No kings, no crowns — only we, the people, rising, millions strong, a tide that won’t be denied.
Emerging again, breaking the soil of silence, rising through the cracks, reaching for light, growing toward a new dawn.
Even in the shadow of empire, someone is always planting something new — a poet, a healer, a cabrona with a tambourine, a truth-teller with paint on their palms.
And Hope — she’s here too, steady as stillness between storms.
She’s the mother’s hand pulling her child close in the dark, the whisper across barbed wire: hold on.
She was in the boats, the camps, the hymns sung in another tongue.
She’s here too — wearing every color, lighting every candle.
Hope doesn’t beg permission.
She rises anyway — in protest songs, in picket lines, in the tender courage of those who refuse to look away.
Even when despair howls loud, she hums something older — something like, not yet, not done, not over.
The soil knows our names.
The rivers remind us how to move together.
Difference is not disorder — it is abundance.
Through the honoring of diversity, we create true unity — not from sameness, but from symphony.
Because love, when it remembers itself, is a revolution.
And we — are here for that — with open arms, with rhythm and color, with art and truth, with hope that burns quietly, charging our spirit, calling us forward to a better tomorrow.
We will not forget.
We will not be silenced.
Freedom isn’t handed down — it’s planted.
Each act of courage is a seed that blooms again when we are people of one earth: rooted, resilient, unstoppable.
