Dreams; (the unheard tale of the African Child).

Silence is the voice they hear when I speak. Louder though I wail, yet no one seems to heed. Like muffles of a struggling man denying a forceful death, I quiver and quaver yet mercy remains unhinged. My yearnings in vein as the vane molests me. As I wander the rough dusty paths amidst these vast baobab trees. The odds hovering around me, like the winds billowing a tree. My head heavy, yet this heft soothes my weary dandruff itch. For these thorny branches be the resort upon which I feed. And stories upon stories I am told, yet not a single one befits me. Bout the tales of fairies and princesses, heroines and Queens. In a land far beyond beyond where my hopes cannot reach. Yet here I sit, adamantly waiting for the light to beam. The light which brightens upon the future, that future which I'm blinded to see. But in my sleep I see a dream, and in the dream I'm crowned a queen. Perhaps this is my wish beckoning me, yet not a chance I had waken to see. And then my mother's legacy untold to me, yet rendered down as if a glory I weaned. And my suffering, I am told, is the bright man's ideal. And so I wonder as to why a bright being would have a dark will. And further I wonder as to why my father could not own his ideals. Perhaps it's just a tale, one which is told to weaken my heels. Or perhaps it's a story in which my ancestral shame is concealed. And whence I go to fetch from the unsung heroes' stream. As I lean, therein a reflection of my dreams sprouts on a wavy screen. But then it floats away and farther away from me. Though within my reach, yet beyond my grip. And so I query, "whither the fate, that which I am determined to will?" Whither, I question, the destiny I am bestowed to fulfill. And though I rise to speak, but my voice remains too shrill. Lord do I pray, that someday my voice grows bold as steel. So the world which looks down upon me, may be blinded by my glistens and squeals. Thus I may end my ancestral ordeal. And redeem my glory, as I rewrite history in an indelible ink and with a perfect quill...

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-Ibn Adam...

(This poem is dedicated to the African girl child).