Touch my hand, feel the aftermath of war.
The ashes that still breathe on my skin.
forgive the silence of your mother.
When she shield your eyes from history
when she spinned the stories into dust.
Even when your young eyes held the sun.
Even when your voice steadied like a grip.
Feel my pulse, the music of a slow dance.
The chords that brought me here still play.
Forgive every time the world drowned in the lies of indifference.
Every time a woman was cirlcled in shame, in the gory of hate.
Yet girls, mothers, maids, teachers- all awakening in a glorious song.
Trace my skin-the grandeur , the scars and the lightening hope.
The way the people have trod- limping, building, singing all the same.
You can see it all here- the revolting past meeting the aching present.
But we are here all the same writing the same things.