Motherland

How the scent of this land’s dirt

Pleasantly mixes and blends with

The aroma of our native dessert

Exhilarating, awakening each nostril

As the dough is fried in crackling oil

And shaped by hands of a people

That simmer the chai to a perfect boil

Hands that

Carry the rye and knead the wheats

And sprinkle spices on all the meats

On these crowded, bustling streets

The people joyful as they greet

And together they work, pray and laugh

Break bread and humbly eat

With one another under the sun’s

Humid but hospitable heat

From which born is a sweat

The moisture illuminating the essence,

And true color, of their glistening skin

A beige-y brown, an amber-y cinnamon

I see it in the dirt, the hands, the chai

In the spices, and the rye

They all share that same color

That same brown-based dye

That shimmers and radiates

With such a familiar, heartfelt glow

The fondness leads me straight

To epiphany’s remarkable gate

As I enter that gate, I realize

It was always my fate

To look down and see the same color

On the hands that eat from my plate

My hands, that seem now

To mean more, to carry more weight

I realize, these are my people

All around me in congregate

I feel a kinship

A warm sense of belonging

My soul takes me on a trip

On history’s ship

I imagine my ancestors

From colonization’s whip

To the battle against its oppression

To freedom and victory in their grip

And to the growth of my people

In education, development, and leadership

How the scent of this land’s dirt

Taught me how my people

Used their hands and built their home

From and upon that same dirt

How the scent of this land’s dirt

Makes me so proud

That I share their blood

Their lineage my shroud

And it is because of them

That I am me

~ Motherland