I walk on this street
that I have come to call, so quickly,
and so presumptuously,
'our street'.
I pass broken sidewalks, leaking drainage pipes,
century-old buildings, made from bricks
that have been re-salvaged, many times over...
all made from the blood-red clay of this ground.
Open windows and doors,
some barred, some standing open...
some barred, with small, staring children sitting
with their arms and legs outside the bars,
catching the scant breeze while Mama cooks supper,
and older siblings play video games.
People. People like me, trying to make a life, carve a niche.
People who belong here...
whose great, great, and greater, parents
have lived and worshipped on the land beneath this street,
that I dare to call, 'my'.
Down the street, further,
a man lying naked, his pants too soiled to bear.
Woman, begging,
hands alternating between grasping coins
and scratching the trails of parasites,
that view her flesh as their Mother Earth.
These are my Relatives.
These are your Relatives.
Pray to your God,
that when your turn comes
to stand barefoot,
on a sharp and unfriendly rocky road,
that used to be home,
uncertain as to where you will find your next sip of water,
or what you will next swallow
to sustain your creeping, reeking body,
on its own trail of tears...
Pray that there will always be someone
who sees you for who you are...
Grandmother, Grandfather, Mother, Father,
Sister, Brother...
Child,
made in the image of our Creator.
A new prayer upon my lips,
born of this place,
that houses some of the poorest, and the wealthiest,
of my Relatives:
"Please, Father,
teach me Love...
even if the lesson hurts."
that I have come to call, so quickly,
and so presumptuously,
'our street'.
I pass broken sidewalks, leaking drainage pipes,
century-old buildings, made from bricks
that have been re-salvaged, many times over...
all made from the blood-red clay of this ground.
Open windows and doors,
some barred, some standing open...
some barred, with small, staring children sitting
with their arms and legs outside the bars,
catching the scant breeze while Mama cooks supper,
and older siblings play video games.
People. People like me, trying to make a life, carve a niche.
People who belong here...
whose great, great, and greater, parents
have lived and worshipped on the land beneath this street,
that I dare to call, 'my'.
Down the street, further,
a man lying naked, his pants too soiled to bear.
Woman, begging,
hands alternating between grasping coins
and scratching the trails of parasites,
that view her flesh as their Mother Earth.
These are my Relatives.
These are your Relatives.
Pray to your God,
that when your turn comes
to stand barefoot,
on a sharp and unfriendly rocky road,
that used to be home,
uncertain as to where you will find your next sip of water,
or what you will next swallow
to sustain your creeping, reeking body,
on its own trail of tears...
Pray that there will always be someone
who sees you for who you are...
Grandmother, Grandfather, Mother, Father,
Sister, Brother...
Child,
made in the image of our Creator.
A new prayer upon my lips,
born of this place,
that houses some of the poorest, and the wealthiest,
of my Relatives:
"Please, Father,
teach me Love...
even if the lesson hurts."
