Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.
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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Black man, do you remember who you are? Before temples were carved from stone, before books whispered borrowed truths, you were already divine. You walked with spirit, not religion. You read the stars and the rivers, you spoke to the wind and it answered, you heard God in the thunder and saw His face in the lion’s gaze. But now— You kneel before foreign names. You pray to faces that do not reflect your own. They gave you their gods and took your land, gave you a white savior and stole your soul. How can your liberation come from those who bound you? Abraham is not your ancestor. Jacob never tilled your soil. David never danced to your drums. Why then do you chant their names and forget the names of your grandfathers? Why do you reject your lineage and embrace the chains that erased it? They told you to forget your ancestors— called your roots evil, your spirits demons. Yet they revere theirs in books and statues. What hypocrisy blinds you? Spiritual suicide— that is what you commit, daily, when you abandon the sacred drum, the sacred tree, the sacred fire. When you see your oppressor’s god as your own, you will always kneel beneath him. How can you rise while worshiping your captivity? Wake up, Black man. You are not lost. The ancestors are waiting in the wind, in the waters, in your bones. They whisper still. Remember your gods. Remember the rhythm of your bloodline. The power is not in Rome or Jerusalem— it is in the dust of your homeland, in the echo of your grandmother’s voice, in the prayers said with bare feet and a pure heart beneath the baobab tree. Reclaim your spirit. Reclaim your throne. The world rejects you because you have forgotten how to speak your original name. Speak it again. And rise.
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