Echoes from the Red Earth
They tried to name me from a borrowed book,
To smooth my edges with a foreign sound.
But my name is a seed that my grandmother took
From the red earth, and planted in the ground.
It grew with the rhythm of the summer rain,
A melody only the old roads know.
It holds the quiet strength of the mountain chain,
And the story only the river’s flow can show.
They speak of futures written in distant stars,
Of paths that lead away from this red loam.
But my soul is rooted where the scarred earth bears
The fingerprints of all who call it home.
So when I speak, hear the dust of ancestors,
Feel the fire of a timeless, patient sun.
My name is not just sound—it is a compass
That finds its north only where I am from.
I carry the calabash, I carry the song,
A bridge between the future and the long, long gone.
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