These people "come back and savor us" after their thirst is quenched by "sal y agua on this altar" in a poem by Sandra Cisneros, who honored her mother as one at the Smithsonian with an ofrenda.
These people are compared to "sweet-honeyed tamarind pods / That will burst in tomorrow's sun" in an Albert Wendt poem. A Gioconda Belli speaker who "[fears] the blood that fuels our love / does not belong to us" reads the poems of these people, who "[pendulate] from zenith to nadir" "behind that membrane" in a César Vallejo poem. The speaker implores these people to "Defend the roofs of Paris in this dominical fog" in a Senghor poem. They title an essay claiming "vomiting increases the appetite; the orgy, sterile in itself, renews the fertility of the mother of the (*) earth." In a Nâzim Hikmet poem, a child from Hiroshima "[comes] and [knocks] on every door" because he is one of these people, who title an essay on fiestas from The Labyrinth of Solitude. These people "come back and savor us" after their thirst is quenched by "sal y agua on this altar" in a poem by Sandra Cisneros, who honored her mother as one at the Smithsonian with an ofrenda. For 10 points, name these dedicatees of Día de los muertos.
These people are compared to "sweet-honeyed tamarind pods / That will burst in tomorrow's sun" in an Albert Wendt poem.
the dead [accept los muertos before mentioned; accept the deceased or other synonyms; accept ancestors or forefathers other equivalents about dead relatives (and antiprompt on "mothers" or "grandfathers" or other specific relatives)]