She is a living recordof what can’t be found in history booksDiluted sheets can never capturethe layers of life that she wearson her face like armor.Each crease, sculpted by the love for her children.No nip and tuckto help erase the bitter wintersthat pierced through her skin like daggersor the nights she laid her headagainst bare floorsthat bore blisters on her spiritNo sweet lullaby to singfor the aspirations she carried on her backlike a new born babyHer eyes, heavy from centuries of disappointment,still warm up souls like sancochoHer lips have only spoken the trutheven when she wasn’t understoodNavigating through unfamiliar places,with strange faces, and labeled an alienA word used to describe anything that is differentNever fulfilling prophecies of men destined to be kingsbut instead nurtured boyswhose lives would end before they began.Searching for justice in a foreign land,ambition is now placed in the handsof future generations.She is a living recordof what can’t be found in history books.She is history that hasn’t been written yet.
“She is a living record
of what can’t be found in history books.
She is history
that hasn’t been written yet.”
Very thought provoking and wonderful poetry
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Thank you Cynthia.
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