Roots.

My blood is a map that i cannot read.

My skin a story in languages that overlap.

My hair a crown to civilizations lost.

 

A sad thing it is not to know where you come from.

To not know the many ancestors that call your spirit.

To be among the lost children in the ocean of history and time.

 

All that connects us to this land--pain and blood and chains.

Our bodies strangers to these branches.

Our souls restless.

 

Kin condemned to roam unending, ever-changing fields.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

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