Papa’s weary beard hair
mama’s imagination
coiled in her head wrap
all living in memory
of a revolution
now
days on the African soil
proverbial are the political revolts
a mere fantasy
dancing on illusion
hiding its pain in soil
like dreams and death
pregnant are words
before they’re birthed
cobbled together
paused like brief sobs
In narrow hallways
born to wings of fire
children of the revolution
rays of the sun
embers, sparks to lives
we all know their names
etched, they sing songs
of our lives.
©2013 afro’disiatic / amira.ali
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