Whispered worries weep
as pink thorns choke on the red wine
crushed from Strange Fruit
Thunderous tribal tear drops
beats the drum with each fall.
Eerie echoes fill the voids
meant for laughter, love and life.
And another mother wails
another generation stops — dead.
As we “wave our hands in the air”
blocking blood, bullets and the belief that
Brown bodies matter — equally?!
Somewhere, some place sacred
A young child has hope.
No fear of white hoods,
or His pockets full of Skittles.
Some place, somewhere sacred
A little Girl is learning to translate the whispers in the wind.
She will chant the truth into existence.
Every child, of every hue will live their entire destiny
Knowing they did