In waters where freedom whispers in ebbs

and the road unyielding,

we seek something in nature’s solitude,

in nature’s tilt, a lisp, delicate.

Bittersweet is the hope that holds

melancholy and turbid dreams patched together

in aging vessels, where our stories lay.

Of dreams and of dreaming, something buried within

where our  lives have unraveled

From what we used to weave, hands together

with threads, pulling apart

the edges from where the sky’s shadow engulfed us.

Before we became the songs we had refused to hear   

Before our blossoms became the diaspora dance, now alien to us

Before our souls finally leave the home we carry,

And hope finds something buried within us.

The Forgotten Dance

 Within the land, we weave

  in the colors our mothers used to weave

The hues they proudly  embedded in

  the paths marked by their song

Each day wounds sought and  found

  solemn journeys guided by footsteps

Testifying for the dance

That still holds posterity, stitched together.