Soledad, a story that never ends,
legs whose history I must cry out.
Those six lines that ended your freedom.
Your name profaned,
your life profaned,
the light born from your voice profaned.
Soledad, soledad…
tender grace lying in lilies.
Red your flag,
red your blood,
red the flowers you never touched.
Soledad. Seven letters to resignify life.
I curse the god to whom your death was offered,
that eighth of January when your voice was silenced.
You, Soledad, who entrusted your garden to the vilest traitor.
Soledad. From your womb birds take flight.
Photography by Martina Madero
I was born in Guadalajara, but I’ve lived in the country’s three largest cities. I’ve devoted almost my entire life to art, and in my work I reclaim childhood through creativity.