Wounds as deep as a tree.
How is it that she is still free?
Statistics say she should be broken,
so many words that are still unspoken.
What is spoken is not heard,
what is heard is not felt.
They are not blind,
they just choose not to see.
Bruises as brown as the crisp autumn leaves,
tears that flow from a never-ending stream.
What makes her so strong?
While the wind of change constantly shakes her,
the raging sea that overtakes her.
She stands tall with roots so deep.
Deep, deep are the secrets;
the cycle, the never-ending circle.
Of a power-struggle of a man and his inner beast,
one he can't tame.
A generational curse, that has yet to be maimed.
the little birdies say.
The song we hear everyday.
It's a pity, she was real pretty!
Over lookers day by day,
turn there heads and secretly pray,
for the women they came across that one day.
But they refused to say,
what should have been spoken.
But by and by she remains unbroken.
Her spirit soars under the bright, warm sun.
She refuses to let what’s been done
dictate what she will become.
She's your mother,
And they trespassed her body,
made her take the stand,
yet they refused to believe it was once sacred land.
What message is this to the young?
What song has yet to be sung?
For all of the women who have come undone.
Webs of lies they spin,
endless threads of unhappiness.
Paint a pretty picture for the world to see,
now hold your breath, count 1-2-3.
Little eyes, little ears,
From their mothers and their fathers.
The cycle, the circle begins again.
Or can just one, or two or three?
Strong women succeed, in breaking the cycle the
never ending circle that we choose not to see.