Brown skinned child

Here

with veins that hold meaning

because of what passes

through them.

Skin that in its pores

hold the whispering prayers

and laments of ancestors.

Eyes the same color

as your kin

search for the portals within

for they hold wellsprings of knowledge.

There

A voice heard in the distance.

One

and the more.

Soft and somber like WAVES,

then ROARING like fire.

A war cry sung by a gospel choir

Calling to you;

“Forge your own path.”

Everywhere

You, yes you,

have been here before.

Your history is in you.

Let not the conscious awareness

of details dissuade your spirit.

Blessed be your brown heart.

Transcend.