The clothing, the earrings, the music

do not make the culture

It is the pain of the first born,

It is the stilled born corn that never saw the sun

It is the water that pours but never hits the bottom of the cup

It is the bleach that whitened rape,

a mother stinking of envy called love

It is the closed door with the bloodied hand prints calling for God when there was never a word for one in our tongues

It is the silence of the mixed bloods, forced out of daughters by brothers, uncles and fathers

It is the mango tree that witness the aging and birth of it all, as it own comes to an end

It is not a pretty land we own, it is not a pretty home you can claim,

It is messy, it is deep rooted

It is the land of the colonized trying to live with their feet chained around their necks and their hands gripping to free themselves yelling inaudible words, unaware that their tongues never grew


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s