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thrum of morning
Nestled in grassroots enlightenment
I've learnt to search backwards,
ask my foremothers where to look for the sun.
It's in the pages.
The books tell us either true or disguised
of their tired outrage and how they carried it
forth in their bellies and on their spines.
You might trip into feeling
you have invented the rage, there
on the edge of your ego. You might think
the dawn that swells within
belongs to you.
It does not. It was the cadence
of their voices that made us
turn to the horizon and wait
for the thrum of morning.
This is how they remind us.
We are black as ink and you
cannot write the histories
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