When they speaks of history, they will remember her
Not quite in the same way as she would because
She would describe how her home was awaken,
She’d say it started to feel like Jericho,
And we were the living historian, even the blinds speak about.
Our lives carved into braille, so even they could sense the height of our pains as their fingers brush over the nothing words that sums up our every breath.
When she speaks of history, she will now know, how history chose her to tell its story.
Stories that sold her security as lessons.
Stories that left lips open before lids were raised to see the death of her mother.
Stories of begging
Stories of pleading
Stories of slavery
Stories that will one day count her as part of a statistic
Stories of how today, they have built enough walls to contain eternity
Stories of her mother
Stories of her becoming a mother
Stories she will one day speak of to her daughter
When she will speak of the day her home was awaken by the loud rumble
How her mother laid beneath the rubbles
How even the blind sights her story everyday
How history chose her
The day will come when they will speak of history
And all will remember her and say,
She was there
For her soon but never come freedom.