A calavera, written with love to all Canadians
La Catrina. By Jose Guadalupe Posada
On a foggy night in Vancouver
I heard a knock on my door
I saw my beloved Muerte
With a non-glamorous coat
She told me that here in Canada
They called her Grim Reaper,
A genderless noun
That is offending her in the deepest
I’m la Muerte, a glamorous lady
Not some stripper or any kind of reaper
What is wrong with Canadians? I wonder tonight
Perhaps their lack of fiestas has turned them mad
This fine lady told me
I need to go back
There is nothing like Mexico
But first I need a snack
We wandered together
And visited a few houses
La Muerte then told me,
There is no common sense in this country
What is wrong with these zombie kids, walking on the streets?
I told her that Canadians are quite an elite
They think that zombies, can eat their brains like feasts
But, where are the altars to welcome the death?
I see no flowers, I see no food
Nobody is at the graveyards, oh how rude!
Canadians think the Grim Reaper is something to fear
They don’t know how joyful death can be
Not even Wayne Gretzky would dare to cheer
La Muerte got tired
She couldn’t find anything flavourful to eat
She told me, dear Silvia
It is time for me to leave.
October 24th, 2013
Fall
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