Sand

I looked at the moon tonight and saw your majestic face watching over the land of kings. 

You stood at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean waving goodbye to ancestors long since gone.

TBlood still stained the sand. 

The ocean lapped at your feet like the hungry hands of forgotten names clawing to be free at last from watery graves.

Your tears are real as you kneel to grasp a handful of sand, the lost faces to place them on dry Africa.

Why does it still hurt you so?

It hurts because all mothers cry at the loss of their children.

As you dig deeper into the sand, I see the scars appear on your back. Mother Africa is showing you the fate your ancestors endured.

You are on your hands and knees now, sobbing. You have become an open wound the world refuses to heal.

You rise from the sand and wipe your tears. You call out to the many tribes of people lost. 

“Come! I will be your conduit to reconnect with the Mother. Flow into us, the Mother and I, and feel Africa again!”

You are the lifeline of nations who do not recognize your greatness. You have been shaking oppressors from your shoulders for generations.

Yet, they persist.

While the world is still vile and unrelenting in the treatment of your sons and daughters, you were screaming your children’s lives mattered long before the world took notice.

With every lynching, beating, burning, or dog attack, you straightened your shoulders and walked towards an invisible line no one else could see. 

You are the great seer of time. The greatest magician who has ever lived. You took chains and turned them into freedom while the world watched and didn’t see you coming. 

Black Woman supreme! Black Woman, my Queen!