Empowered spaces, wounded and bleeding. Heritage we passed down from
generations to generations. Word of mouth; which inevitably led to re-adoptions
with the passing of time.
I heard voices in anguished songs. The pulse of my mind become so solid…pounding
and throbbing, the fractured rhythm passed and moved us. Hideous memories trigger
hate and guns.
The elegance of memory, I used to wonder and now I know. There will be no
dreaming about escape. There were dreams once, but now we know enough to have
known the dream.
Our heritage now lives without a shadow. On other days like a slave. There are no
sanctions forcing us to learn anything about our heritage. Stage brutality, but death is