And this is the poem that started it all, back there,
on the spine of the continent.
"Diego, you dead man.
I write to you.
It's been centuries, I'm sure, since someone called out
to you.
But now I do.
Diego de Landa.
The year is 2023.
And the calendar's been reset.
Your story buried beneath your auto-da-fé burning our bodies
down.
We've no one to rescue that sound.
But what am I saying?
I speak English into robots, and write to you
in anything but Spanish, lengua catalán.
I wanted you to know, I've touched your soil.
And throughout Madrid, and Barcelona,
I carved large, red letters in churches and chapels.
I painted Mayan conquest on subways and buses.
Wrote "fuck Spain" over every flag I could find.
I started small fires in museums,
and stopped short of smashing mirrors and windows.
And I can't erase you now.
There's too much to wipe out on data disks and clouds.
And fire couldn't find you now.
Perhaps you'll drown.
Perhaps I'll pull you through cenotes on my gringo tongue.
Rinse your lungs clean with Xibalba water.
What would you have to say, then?
Could your heart be pure?
I'd have to taste test the ash of your organs.
I'd have to fiddle with your bones to be certain,
I could trust you to go on dying, unacquitted
by the light of time.
See, I want your trial to continue,
and maybe I want to save you.
Love, A."
[APPLAUSE]