El Coquí: Our Whispering Witness

The coquí does not ask permission to sing.

It simply is

a sound older than language,

older than flags,

older than the hands that tried to erase us.

That song

co-quí, co-quí

is the sound of the island breathing through the trees,

a heartbeat in the humid dusk,

a lullaby passed down in green tongues and moonlight.

To the outsider,

it's just a frog.

But we know better.

The coquí is reminder and rebellion.

It sings because we are still here.

It sings because silence is not an option.

It sings in the forests where our ancestors once hid,

and now, it sings in our memory

when we ache for the scent of the earth after rain.

That song

 co-quí, co-quí

 is the sound of the island breathing through the trees,

 a heartbeat in the humid dusk,

 a lullaby passed down in green tongues and moonlight.

To the outsider,

 it's just a frog.

 But we know better.

The coquí is reminder and rebellion.

 It sings because we are still here.

 It sings because silence is not an option.

 It sings in the forests where our ancestors once hid,

 and now, it sings in our memory

 when we ache for the scent of the earth after rain.

For us

the displaced,

the dreamers,

the ones who light velas in exile

that song is a compass.

It pulls at the marrow. 

It says, “No matter how far you go,

 you belong to something sacred.”

Even now, when you hear it in your sleep or in your blood,

 know this:

 it is not a memory. 

It is a message.

The coquí is still singing, 

and so are we.