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We can account for the scars in our sides, |
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Yet we are not privy to the thoughts that we discard. |
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Those who would break us, |
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Nurture our despair. |
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But still we cherish those who we revile. |
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We take this battle in our fortitude, |
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The war of will yet to be resolved. |
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We broke the font from which we sup, |
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Bit hard upon the nape of our chaste and drew blood. |
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Take refuge in our commune, |
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Orphans, |
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Staccato souls. |
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Scrawled identities, |
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Captives of our consecration. |
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Is this our dowry, |
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The sorrow of our loss? |
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Do we inflict our young with the horrors of our past? |
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We use these imperfections as markers, |
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Vestige points. |
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We have so much to gain, |
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So little left to loose. |
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Lay bare this soil, |
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A marred ambit, |
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Borders bound by slick hraka. |
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Towers of salt carve out tracks, |
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Cleaved in two by careless hands. |
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The word is rife, |
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The harbinger, |
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It clings to us this Efrafa. |
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Homba, |
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Lendri and Yonil, |
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It rises like vomit within us all. |
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The weakening words spread out in ares, |
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The urge to flee, |
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Cowardice engulfs. |
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Our hands are raised in unison. |
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Brandished tools, |
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Branded skin. |
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Cut away, |
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Like so much meat, |
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We forged new scars against ill repute, |
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We hold on tight to one another. |
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I am legion for we are many. |
