Elegy on the Death of Cesar Chavez César is dead, And we have wept for him until our eyes are dry. Dry as the fields of California that He loved so well and now lie fallow. Dry as the orchards of Yakima, where dark buds Hang on trees and do not blossom. Dry as el Valle de Tejas where people cross Their Foreheads and pray for rain. This earth he loved so well is dry and mourning For César has fallen, our morning star has fallen. The messenger came with the sad news of his death— O, kill the messenger and steal back the life Of this man who was a guide across fields of toil. Kill the day and stop all time, stop la muerte Who has robbed us of our morning star, that Luminous light that greeted workers as they Gathered around the dawn campfires Let the morning light of Quetzalcóatl and Christian saint Shine again. Let the wings of the Holy Ghost unfold And give back the spirit it took from us in sleep. Across the land we heard las campanas doblando: Ha muerto César, Ha muerto César. How can the morning star die? We ask. How can This man who moved like the light of justice die? Hijo de la Virgen de Guadalupe, hombre de la gente, You starved your body so we might know your spirit. The days do carry hope, and the days do carry treason. O, fateful day, April 23, 1993, when our morning Star did not rise and we knew that in his sleep César had awakened to a greater dream. And we, left lost on this dark, dry Earth, Cursed the day la muerte came to claim The light within his noble body. He was a wind of change that swept over our land. From the San Joaquin Valley north to Sacramento From northwest Yakima to el Valle de Tejas From el Valle de San Luis to Midwest fields of corn He loved the land, he loved la gente. His name was a soft breeze to cool the campesino’s sweat A scourge on the oppressors of the poor. Now he lies dead, and storms still rage around us. The dispossessed walk hopeless streets, Campesinos gather by roadside ditches to sleep, Shrouded by pesticides, unsure of tomorrow, Hounded by propositions