Juan Lli Pedraza
A Song of Fire
The broken heart sits still on the ground. The weight of reality drops down, and blood starts flowing. I see the fire dancing,
At times I hold my voice down. I let silence linger long enough for my skin to place doubts on the audience of who I am and where I come from.
I often die, in pain, in agony. I often die, quietly, remembering pieces of me that have been lost for far too long.
Taste of Tradition
In another world, I’d be making tortilla española, aligot, tonkatsu for my grandfather so his taste buds could tiptoe through the gates of cultures unknown to him. Instead, I write a piece in analysis and remembrance of his life through a Venezuelan dish.
The sun doesn't quite hit my window in the afternoon. Instead, it rests its powerful rays on the wall beside it. The cream paint turns bright yellow