Proelia

The trees around me sing sad songs, 

rustling in the wind harbor secrets of broken dreams lost, 

shattered pieces of what was, 

if mothers tears could change the fabric of life maybe her little girl would have been twenty five years old. 

The poison in them not only infects the skin, 

but also the mind, the earth and bones,

 haven't we given enough to this place we call home, 

wasn't blood spilled by our fathers fathers,

 wasn't it enough,

wasn't it just, that we'd reap the benefits of those sins fading,

washed away by pools of tears, 

of bodies unlike those that should have been,

 a slavery inherited rooted in our own dark skin,

 haven't we given enough to this place we call home.

They say the future is bright,

but my sun, son, dark skinned and lovely doesn't radiate that warmth,

our leaders warmongers,warlords and thieves,
famine - inflation are myths, both the readers of their own plagiarized verse and the standing ovation, a loud applause to their own words soaked in lies.

The poison in them not only infects the skin,

but also the mind, the earth and bones,

when will we ever be free.

When will we claim a land we are born to,

that doesn't fully feel like our own.

We forgive ourselves today,

and then make the same mistakes again,

we, the uninteresting rerun were the plot twist teases but never comes,

where youth is just that words, or a hashtag, or a trend. 

I believe your pain,

brittle bones and scars,

unfulfilled dreams drained dry like our rain forests are lost,

wasn't blood spilled by our fathers fathers, 

wasn't it enough,

wasn't it all about us. 

The trees around me sing sad songs, 

rustling in the wind harbor secrets of broken dreams still lost, 

still shattered pieces of what was, 

if her mothers tears could have changed the fabric of life maybe that little girl would have been twenty five years old.

19/03/21

"Proelia" is the Latin word for "Struggles" 

"Ars longa, vita brevis."