My Roots
I hail from a bombed out sanctuary,
And from the survivors of genocide
Who had the courage to run
Where none of my people had run before.
I hail from the underground safe haven,
Built by a laborer dubbed “unskilled” by the public.
From the haven that aided so many, then fell,
But with it’s chin held high
And it’s seeds planted deep in the earth.
So deep in fact,
That one day,
A solitary soul might look upon said haven and think
If only…
I hail from babies that cry in the night,
And from mothers,
Praying that the cries will not stop,
Not tonight…
I hail from the sweat on the brow,
Of a teenage farmer
As he grips his trusted shovel,
stares into the sun,
And tells himself
Just one more hour...
I hail from musicians in the dark,
And from the ebonies and ivories into which they poured their souls,
Filling a mold
That all descendants now fill as well.
I hail from the sweat of my people,
Gathering in puddles on the floor as they work to feed their families,
The air choked with the smell of Italian leather
Greased to perfection with the perspiration of the hardest workers
This world has ever seen.
I hail from the marriage of the secret gardener and the keeper of calendars,
From the brotherhood of the brain and the brawn.
But more than that,
I hail from efforts to make the world a better place,
One $3.50 cut at a time…
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