Is falsehood painted on historic exhibitions
I know it wasn’t a dream.
Worn pages seared by a
Silence...
Swollen with stories that barely made it to the books
Pages fall like raindrops around me
but they do not soothe the parched land
They lie collapsed, crumpled on the ground like
Bodies ravaged by disease and hunger, wounds recounting torment
Chained by shackles we cannot see
That imprisoned hands from writing their part in our nation’s story and
Suffocated the melodies that belonged to its song.
Naïve, blank eyes squeeze shut.
In steps between the past and the present
Between lies fed on silver spoons and truth ushered in
Through a gradually opening door
I know the entity I sense and the people that stood as part of us for centuries
So, with conviction I pick up the paintbrush,
dip it in color imbued by recognition and make a first stroke.
I open my eyes until the shadows
That live in the light beyond our gaze
pulsing with bronze that glows
The sun.