My language

They took our first tongue. 
The words in Quechua that rolled off my ancestors tongues like they were kissing the sun. 
After, we spoke Spanish in a song. 
Then they ridiculed my parents for not speaking English in a land that they were not from. 
They ask us to be more like them but then tell us to leave.
My tongue is tired of trying to accommodate their needs. 
My soul speaks languages that make them afraid. I am a piece of the Andes mountains, the clouds surrounding macchu pichuu, and the wool that kept my ancestors warm. 
My tongue is no longer available for you to control.

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