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Poem

I stand in the mirror,
a reflection of my ancestors' fight,
a man forged in the fire of their dreams.
But the image stares back,
hollow, questioning,
asking if I’ve done enough.

Their voices echo in the chambers of my mind—
marches on sun-scorched streets,
songs of freedom sung in chains,
hands calloused from building what they’d never own.
"Rise," they whispered.
But have I risen high enough?

I see the pride in their stories,
the resilience in their bones,
the hope in their tired eyes.
And I wonder—
is my stride too slow?
Are my hands too empty?
Have I failed the legacy they bled to leave?

Some days, I carry the weight like a crown.
Other days, it crushes me.
I measure myself against the shadow
of what I think they’d want me to be.
Every stumble feels like a betrayal,
every doubt a crack in the foundation
they built with so much pain.

But then, in the stillness,
I feel them.
Not the judging voices of my fears,
but their steady hands, lifting me.
Their love, unconditional,
whispering truths I often forget:

"You are enough, even in your struggle.
The fight is not just in triumph,
but in every breath you take,
every moment you choose to keep going.
You are not alone;
you are a thread in the fabric of us all."

So, I walk forward.
Not perfect, not complete,
but carrying their fire,
burning brighter
with every step.

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