I know of a contagion—
the DNA of our blood flowing in the veins
of the seas and rivers. The shores
overseas welcome our visits since centuries.

I cannot remember a face like my father’s
on the ship of slavery, nor his native name,
but his chains of heritage are long enough
to reach my children’s children.

The plague of a branch spreads across,
so why would we not protest? Our tree
of lineage would be cut off if we stay silent.

History has managed to knock on our doors
with his bruised knuckles— these doors
are built for millenniums, and we have learnt
how best to open them, and to whom,
from which place, for which cause.

We see what vile lurks out of our windows
on our distant relatives, and we cry out
for our lives in another’s flesh.
We are not souls apart, at least not anymore.

Tukur Ridwan

Mother Earth
my dear depression