Wayuu

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PHOTO BY XENA GOLDMAN

A man sits in his hammock, looks down at his hands.
The sun rises in pinks and tangerines. The desert bears only this fruit.
A kitten cries, stuck in a tree: vultures roam the ground.
This shanty town needs us. The women look away.

The sun rises in pinks and tangerines. The desert bears only this fruit.
Sand gets in; hope gets out.
This shanty town needs us. The women look away.
Some do not speak Spanish; only the word, ¨BUY.¨

Sand gets in; hope gets out.
If not for tourism, not even their bodies would last.
Some do not speak Spanish; only the word, ¨BUY.¨
They make branches of their arms, hang hand-made crochet bags out towards us.

If not for tourism, not even their bodies would last.
We are their lifelines. We are reminders of what they do not have.
They make branches of their arms, hang hand-made crochet bags out towards us.
How dare we vacation here? How dare we not?

We are their lifelines. We are reminders of what they do not have.
A man sits in his hammock, looks down at his hands.
How dare we vacation here? How dare we not?
A kitten cries, stuck in a tree: vultures roam the ground.

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