I remember seeing the bridges of my life burn,
Being reduced to hot ash on cool waters.
There, I found it easy to hate Fire
As She was a cruel mistress.
Who, took without giving,
Consumed without absolving
–Her hunger insatiable.
Her eyes cold.
Yet She burned EVERYTHING.
when She spoke, you could do nothing but listen.
She told me secrets:
Said that She was forever,
That ALL things man made would burn.
And that paradise is folktale manufactured by men
To give them cause to live—to die…
She said that there are only three things She cannot singe:
LOVE—the memory of those who tasted Fire so you wouldn’t have to.
HOPE—the assurance that better days will come.
And AMANDLA—the destiny etched in to our skulls by the fires we have endured.
So one day, when this body of imperfect flesh is set a blaze
It will burn,
Burn till you cannot tell the girl from the flame.
Then, I will find my voice and you will listen,
Because when Fire speaks you can’t do anything but listen.
So come with me,
To a place called Tomorrow,
On a Man-made road.
And don’t fret when you see suffering.
Because pain is man-made too
And all man made things will burn.
The road, charred.
The pain, scorched.
Our bodies, blackened.
Tongues set alight,
And all will listen
As we speak.