Ayiti, Still Bleeding

Ayiti, Still Bleeding Ayiti, land kissed by sun before storm, Where mountains cradle hope in trembling arms, You rise, always rise, Yet the ground beneath you breaks again. The sky has fallen more than once— In shudders, in floods, in firelight. Children born to cracked earth and empty plates, Mothers who pray with dust in their throats. Winds tear your homes, Quakes split your heart, Still, you sew the seams with ash and faith. But how long can skin grow back over bone? They came with chains, then flags, then aid— Each leaving scars in different tongues. They robbed your gold, your voice, your peace, Then told the world you were your own curse. A puppet government dancing on strings, While the people dig deep with hands like prayers, Digging not for treasure, But for peace, for bread, for breath. And still you dance in the rain, Still you sing between sirens, Still you birth tomorrow from the ruins of today— But even steel bends under weight too long carried. “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle?” Whisper that again— To the mother who lost five children to the sea, To the boy with a book but no school, To a country still bleeding, still begging, Still believing. “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle?” Written by Tionna Robinson