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May 2017
I’m not from that part of the world
But I know a few things about them
They love their children
They mourn their dead
Isn’t that enough to know them well?

His mother’s spirit rose through the box and soil
It once provided shelter and their annual harvest
Every child knows this
Because from where they come
The world is never lied about, only endured

They know no politics, but long for justice
Still a violin sounds sweet as their mother
And they know how to dance
Lightness all around their feet
The air is not as cruel as a man can be

To be common is not a poor man’s burden
To speak the truth plainly is his gift
But he is also high-minded
He has no fear of society
And though he is a slave his mind is not

How many generations must suffer purification
To become a people they must first bleed together
They are the chosen people
The ones their tormentors will curse
Because the past will remind them of who they are

But how will we come learn of our tangled roots
We bury ourselves but fail to see what we share
The soil upon which we walk
Is for life and for death
But what God can raise a man can only bury
Mark Lecuona
Written by
Mark Lecuona
253
 
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