Mother-Tribal-Land
I wish you had ears, so I could whisper to you how you’ve been on my mind
Ever since i was brought into your world,
I had only a single wish, for
The stories my mother tells, in real sadness and grief to come to life,
She remembers when she swam in your ocean,
She still feels the water beneath her palm, rushing up to her fingertips, and vanishing before she could even utter a single goodbye,
Tells me tales of the times that she snuck out the house to go to your picture shows,
And dance under the moon light, curly hair wrapped in turban,
Clothes reek of unnsi and grandmothers perfume
With no music playing, tells me she sang her little infant brothers to sleep,
And cooked breakfast at just 5, when grandmother worked
She remembers the simple things,
The fresh colorful flowers swaying in the wind,
Children kicking their soccer balls on the beach,
Laughing as If the only happiness they will ever taste,
Lays on the motherland.
Your motherland.
My motherland.
Our motherland.
She rose this morning, only to wake up to an unrealistic dream,
Our mothers cry helpless tears,
Choose which child to feed and which to not,
Our rivers aren’t rivers, and we don’t have a motherland.
We have a tribal-land
They host parties and play your song,
Talk about when they were children,
And dream of a better land,
They say they want to be AS ONE,
But remain forever separate.
This isn’t the peace my mother spoke of,
Our schools aren’t schools, and our kids became skinner than the women i see on theses western covers.
We don’t have a motherland. We have a tribal-land
Copyright © Rahma Salaad | Year Posted 2015
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