I could lend you my feet.
Teach you to mimic
the stutter and step of journeys
Show you the gyration of generations
stolen in mid-horizon,
but this dance,
would not be yours.
I could let you listen to symphonies
written in percussion and blood;
Have you wade in the whisper
of severed hands,
while palms pound reverence to ancestors
reborn in the echo of drums,
but your ears would confuse this for music.
You would lose the message in the rhapsody of rhythm.
You would rename my miracles
Because you do not know God
like I do.
You do not know the circle that binds blessing to bone.
You do not know the promise
that hides life inside the hollowed belly of stones.
You do not know this song
is a reminder of how blessed be our pain;
You do not know that we are tied
to the land through the covenant
of sweat, machete, and cane.
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