Translate my being onto paper
Volumes of fractured beauty and murky identity
There's je no sais quoi
Grand untranslatability
Of my soul
Eating forests of innocence
So stop!
Hold the hands of man
Squeeze life into those rejected
Babies with tear-streaked faces
Bellies round and full of emptiness
Scars from skin ripped open
Broken, bloody flesh inside
Wounds too fresh for scars
Better to be poured out
Than to be written
With inky dewdrops and sweat
Sliding off the backs of the oppressed
Into hungry soil, forgotten
The story of their tears
Remains silent
I must give them my voice
So they can sing
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