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nyant 2d
Much can be said about freedom.
Is it a feeling, a state of mind, is it found in what we possess?

Perhaps you're like the African child who writes this,
often carrying a rootlessness that he can't articulate either in his mother's or his borrowed tongue.

All he knows right now is 'they' came, 'they' saw 'they' conquered.
We bowed, we wept, defeated.
To this day our ebony coating carries a curse.
Often perceived as less than,
with a lucky few who are above the rest.

Perhaps you're well versed in the beautiful tragedy of who I am.
You're acquainted with my jovial spirit,
my fierce fortitude and my soiled scars.
I appreciate you and I hope you continue to teach others.

Maybe you're a young Paris Hilton who doesn't know there's more to me than south and west,
Be my guest,
but learn my story,
strive to know me and my children for who they really are,
some will try to deceive you like all is well and rosy.
Others will make you weak with worry,
portraying me so pitifully,
wailing my woes while waving my wins.

Anyway, today you celebrate my freedom.
As for me, I grimly grieve.
From my vantage it seems that foreigners feed the feet of the ones most trampled.
Yet your own heads gormandise at ther expense.
Many are conforming to the very ways that enchained them.
Sometimes I'm ashamed to call you my children.

Yet I still hope, I always will.
That one day you will begin to shine in this darkness with all of your blackness,
ride with all of your beauty,
tread upon the slick serpents from abroad and from within,
loosen the limbs of the lions and wolves that corrupt credence to your detriment.
Find ways to forgive the injustices all the while resolving them beyond words.

Perhaps it's a dream, but I hope one day all of you my dear children, near and far, one day, may all of you be truly free.

With love,
Mama Africa
nyant Mar 16
Sometimes I put pen to paper,
or thumbs to keypad,
that my cares may rise like vapour to one that's greater.

These times have left me aloof,
often blind to the truth,
waking up everyday with a sense of renewed hope,
simultaneously with dense legs that don't want to get out of bed cause I won't cope.

Walking this fine line where I'm subject to a steep positive ***** with my head in the clouds or a negative drop with my face in these psalms.
A carrier of this deceased old me hanging and weighing down on the free man.

Coming to realise how hard it is to optimize in this life,
much easier to stay paralysed and pessimize all the strife.

I got so many lines about these tough times but only one thing I'm really trying to say.

When we see a monsier or madame on the other side of the lane and they're clearly in pain we shouldn't refrain, to engage in their sorrow; whisper a word or two for them to the one called True. Maybe go a little further and ask them how they do?

Oh how consoling it is to know a faithful friend from the bitter days to the better ends.

Whichever way that the valley bends may we say that we never really walked alone. Plucking from the beak of a famous duck: It's hard to do these things alone,
so just hold on we'll make it home.
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