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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

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