THE CRY OF OUR SISTERS

— Pains  •  Deaths  •  Legacy

Blood—Sacrifice, pain, violence, buried beneath silence.
With blood, they bled.

Sweat—The pain they endured, the labor, the rise of resistance and survival.
With sweat, they built what we now stand on.

Tears—The grief, mourning, the helpless ache of memory; I mean the kind of memory that never fades.
With tears, they mourned.

Where are my sisters??
Where are they?

No!! Not in the fields, fighting for their mother's nation,
and their blood soaked the soil of sacrifice.
Not in the match-lit caves where light flinches and screams echo—
Where silence follows **** like shadow.

Not in the market, where they are sold like wares,
Where bodies hang like dresses and freedom is
bartered by the pound.

Cla... Cla... Cla—and that goes the sound of the blades,
cutting silence into shreds.
Swords clanged like the cries of our mothers,
Each dagger's whisper a name carved in silence.

They fought, and fought, and fought—and are still.
Their blood flows like deep rivers
strewn with crimson petals.

Can we really get out of this?
Is there an end, or only echoes?

We want an end.
An end with a truth that cannot be buried,
Even if our bodies were.

Does this pain know how to die?

Say their names!
Before the silence swallows them again.
Say their names!!!
So the blood does not dry in vain.

We are the daughters of their tears, their blood, their sweat.
Barefoot, we walk on blades, cursing the stones they dared to cross.
We do not kneel.
We carry fire,
And we rise with their glory in our bones.

~ Quinn ✍️✨