We are.

Where do you come from, sister?

I come from the fields, tilling fallow
land; smell of green and brown. I come
from the factories of doom, clad in winds
of smoke and gloom. From homes never
mine, spilling my marrow for the thanks
ever elusive.

I come from yonder, where spilled the
blood of my kin, my daughters raped; men
quartered. Come from whence my dark skin;
shimmered in the evening sweat to gazes
unwanted. From where the swell of my breasts,
mound of my Venus, the arch of my back
surrendered to touches uninvited.

Where do you go to, sister?

To a better tomorrow. Something always
was promised. Sunshine in a million
kaleidoscopes, splintered across snowflakes
of happiness. To what is owed. What we
deserve! Some sisters are there, calling on
to us.

Why do you cry, dear sister?

Their faces... painted away. Lips sealed;
breasts quelled, the twirl of powerful hips
bound in thousand meshes of conformity.
That is not freedom. Freedom is not packed in
Gucci, Prada; not sold in streets of morality.
We are not them. They will not see us. Not see
us crying. Not through veiled blindness.

Why do you sigh, sister?

A clarion call. March on, sistren.
March with. Not slaves of circumstance;
neither martyrs of the day; nor the pangs of
virtuous angst. We are- the unwritten truth,
empresses of our own. We do not bow, do
not halt. We battle a million armies. The
heave of our breasts; rise of our areolas
and the strength of our thighs as sweat pours
unabashedly between our legs, wrapped around
your senses, as we march. That is us.
We are.