The dominion of a colonizing force often begins with the silent but powerful weapon of language. Through the act of naming and renaming, the colonizers impose their vision upon the world of those they dominate, compelling the subjugated to view their identities through the distorted lens of their conquerors. Espada highlights this insidious tactic, equating the manipulation of language with the deadly force of firearms used by the Spanish against the native Borinquens.

Espada illustrates this linguistic domination with poignant examples, such as the transformation of "colibrí" and "Taino." The indigenous Arawak were renamed Taino by the Spaniards, while the delicate hummingbird became colibrí. Through his poem, Espada extends this metaphor, cleverly juxtaposing these names. Yet, despite the metaphorical promise of liberation in its closing lines, the poem underscores a grim reality: true escape from the linguistic chains of the oppressors remains elusive. The very language of the colonizers entwines itself into the consciousness of the colonized, shaping how they perceive and navigate their existence. The poem’s concluding imagery poignantly suggests that the shadow of European linguistic colonialism continues to loom large, casting doubts over the possibility of genuine freedom.

History intricately weaves itself into the fabric of the present, often reflecting more about today's needs than yesterday's events. Those who pen its narratives are guided by contemporary urgencies. In recent years, there has been a fervent endeavor to reinterpret American history through the lens of Native Americans and voices once silenced, underscoring this dynamic interplay between past and present.

Espada's poem emerges as an evocative effort to recast Puerto Rico's history, portraying its "discovery" and subsequent colonization as acts of aggression. The poem's closing lines—"If only history / were like your hands"—echo with both yearning and sorrow, highlighting the formidable challenge of reshaping entrenched perceptions about Puerto Rico and addressing historical wrongs.

Poets frequently infuse their verses with a sense of enchantment, painting nature as a lush, Edenic haven—a realm untouched, pure, and redemptive. Espada embraces this time-honored tradition in “Colibrí,” where he weaves a tapestry connecting the Taino with the natural world, juxtaposing it against a starkly different reality dominated by the Spanish, who seek control rather than coexistence with nature's bounty.

Espada vividly portrays the Taino, sustained by the "plátanos in the trees," skillfully entwining their existence with that of the hummingbird, a creature celebrated for its delicate beauty yet marked by its fragility. Both, the Taino and the bird, find themselves ensnared. The moment of the bird's liberation unfolds into "a paradise of sky / a nightfall of singing frogs," a poetic vision hinting at the Taino's yearning for their own release into such a utopia. In Espada's portrayal of nature, no predators lurk, no threats loom—save for the encroaching Spanish invaders.

Throughout the tapestry of human history, nations have relentlessly pursued the conquest and annexation of others, leaving a trail of cultural destruction and reshaping the narratives of those lands forever. In the evocative piece “Colibrí,” Espada vividly captures the impact of Spanish colonization on the Taino people. The invaders imposed seismic changes upon the Taino's existence, wielding "iron and words" to instill terror.

Espada poignantly likens the Taino to a hummingbird, a creature that "darts and bangs / between . . . white walls," underscoring their entrapment both in body and spirit. The poem starkly illustrates the vicious nature of colonial dominion through the haunting imagery of the colibrí’s "pure stillness" ensnared in the clutch of its captor.