These are the words of your ancestors-
Your grandmothers who have surfaced from the sea,
leaving the life of comfort behind,
humming growth and livelihood
to anyone willing to walk and be bruised.
They become the song of your mothers
queens who have long paved the road
with their footsteps,
who have discovered the ability to fly,
and have been burnt by being able to do so.
They are not lost to your sisters
who have managed to gather the ashes
at the foot of the stakes,
releasing them to the wind
as to where they originally belonged.
These are heirlooms from your kin
Your family who waits for you
should you decide to be born:
There is no permanence,
No land to contain your bones.
You are not meant for staying.
We are all pilgrims of realms.
There will be long nights
when you have to travel alone,
tend a fire within your body,
and eat whatever that grows.
There will be days when
you will be fed,
share a bed with a stranger,
and see the world glow
at someone else’s windowsill
There will be afternoons and midnights
when someone will graze at your palm,
holding you close,
pleading you not to go,
But you gotta be brave.
You have to trust
the universe who placed you here
will usher you safe
where you are needed to be.
Probably not as comfortable as you would expect.
Who ever told that flying on broomsticks is easy?
Who ever said you can grow fins overnight?
But you will learn.
It’s in your very marrows.
History etched at your spine,
Molten fire in your veins,
They are your heritage.
Waiting to be used.
Waiting to be acknowledged.