The voices of our foremothers are not lost;
they're conjoined
as strong as ligaments
when the rest of the body is torn apart,
burnt, branded or rain washed,
beaten, scorned, denied
and condemned to be forgotten
as our history began with Eve, the snake,
and the dreadful apple.
We are all part of this sisterhood
of a violent, and static past
a crushing finger print
of blood and sadness
of broken, or missing bones
never to be healed or mended. This silence
is too much to bear..so is the burden
of all the words, tears and screams that never
left the domestic space. The world was seen
only through a small window
through distant, foreign eyes,
through other words that compose
a stranger language, where feelings
do not come straight from the heart.
But tiny miracles are unfolded by the waves of
an untamed sea; on the shore
on the sand banks, where shells crack
and a traveller's leg gets
tangled in weeds
you can still see their footprints
and the echo of their voice
still lingering in the breeze
revived and poignant,
but pleasant
yet so familiar
like a chorus of a lost song
which reminds you of childhood,
the memories you hold dear
or a lullaby mother used to sing to you
just before you went to sleep.
You're older now..Your hands are trembling
and in your voice you find something else-
a strenght that motivates you
above all to carry on the fight,
as behind a misty veil
a new life springs in the middle
of the ruins, in the dead of night
where silent witnesses hold their tongues
in celestial, but stone-like palsy.