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>> A couple of years ago, I
returned again to Puerto Rico

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with my wife this time, while
there up in the mountains.

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Again, this time of town called Jayuya.

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We encountered, first of all, the
presence of the sense of the Tainos,

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the indigenous inhabitants of
the island who were obliterated

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over the centuries by the Spanish.

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And yet, who still can be seen in Puerto Rico
through their petroglyphs, the rock carvings,

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through many of the words that have found
their way into Puerto Rican Spanish and even

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through the color of the skin
of many people from Puerto Rico.

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So while there we'd began to think
about that and then an incident occurred

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which crystallized everything
and it involved a hummingbird.

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The poem is called colibrí, which
is the Spanish word for hummingbird.

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And what I'd like to do is
this is a bilingual book,

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I'll read it first in Spanish
and then in English.

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Colibrí.

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En Jayuya los lagartijos se dispersan como
una flota de canoas verdes ante el invasor.

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Los españoles conquistaron
con hierro y palabras.

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Indio taíno, para el pueblo que tomaba la vida
de la lluvia arrojada entre los árboles como

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flechas y evaporándose.

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Ellos que dejaron huellas en la roca, de ojos
y bocas, y en círculos perfectos de espanto.

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Y el zumbador fue bautizado colibrí.

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Ahora el colibrí se precipita y se estrella
entre los muros blancos de la hacienda,

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un corazón taíno agitado, frenético,

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como si oyera el bramido del Dios
de la pólvora por primera vez.

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El colibrí, presa paralizada, calle la más
pura quietud cuando tus manos lo acopan y lo

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alzan por las celosías rojas de la ventana
donde se desaparece un paraíso celeste,

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un anochecer de coquilles.

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Si la historia solo fuera como tus manos.

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Colibrí, for Katherine,
one year later.

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In Jayuya, the lizards scatter like a
fleet of green canoes before the invader.

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The Spanish conquered with iron and words
Indio Taíno for the people who took life

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from the rain, the rush through trees like
evaporating arrows, who left the rock carvings

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of eyes and mouths in perfect
circles of amazement.

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So the hummingbird was christened Colibrí.

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Now the colibrí darts and bangs
between the white walls of the hacienda,

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a racing Taíno heart, frantic as if hearing the
bellowing God of gunpowder for the first time.

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The colibrí becomes pure stillness,
ceased in the paralysis of the pray.

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When your hands cupped the bird and lift
him through the red shutters of the window,

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where disappears into a paradise of
sky, a nightfall of singing frogs.

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If only History were like your hands.