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Ain’t No Grave

When I hear that trumpet sound
I’m gonna rise right out of the ground

Ain’t no grave can hold my body down

Staring into the face of your own mortality is enough to strike fear into any man’s soul. For as sure as life exists, death comes for all. They are but two sides of the same coin.

When that trumpet sounds and our song finally plays, mi amigos, all that is left behind are the notes we played. Our legacy.

Of all which escaped Pandora’s Box, Death is finite. All roads in life lead to one destination, and my song accentuates the journey down that winding path del muerte.

When that trumpet sounds, what legacy lives on in your song?

Well, look way down the river
What do you think I see?
Ain’t no grave can hold my body down

I sung for one who looked into the very face of death, mi amigos, and lived to sing his lament.

Each breath he still draws is destiny, a note of his defiant song. A song that tells the tale of a soul death tried to claim, but the trumpet never sounded.

Drewitt remains a symbol of your failure, Tombstone. An empty boat floating down the river in defiance of death itself.

I too find myself faced with the question of mortality. Death comes for me, in the form of a twisted mind hunting down the last of my kind. My soul is being primed ready for you to ferry.

But I cannot let death win. I cannot let the grave consume me. My song must play on, Ferryman. My soul must remain.

There ain’t no grave can hold my body down

I play a requiem for all those who have fallen. Each note a plea for redemption and a promise of vengeance.

As hard as he may try to end me, to finish the song of my people, the Mariachi still play. There’s no grave, amigos, that can hold my body down.

No catacomb can contain my song. It is an anthem that stands for a legacy not yet finished, a culture of people that will not be silenced.

I have walked the catacombs of Anthesteria now. I have seen their resting place, legacies displayed as a shrine to those he tried to silence. Their songs are held within the strings of my guitar.

I’ve seen the grave he has planned for me, for La Mariachi Vida. I know his plans to place our keepsakes upon his wall and dig our untimely graves. As much as he wishes to draw my life to an end, I do not fear the end.

For the end is not where we meet, Tombstone, nor where my song ends. It is where my world begins, a song that cannot be silenced by the cold hand of death.

Bring your end, Tombstone and I’ll bring you my song. There ain’t no grave that can hold me, amigo. Just as Drewitt defies your passage, my legacy lives on. Can you hear the music on the breeze?

Death cannot silence my song. Let the music play.

El Mariachi Muerte