Call a story a thousand deaths
Mothers weep for the sons that
never grew up
Your white tears are not enough
We’ve weaved enough rivers
with them
You’ve drowned enough of our
sons in it
Turned the water pitch black
Your reflection is all that is left.
Could you face it if the shadows
of their smiles crept through the
pitch black waters?
See your tears could never water
down the truth
The river is black
Black as the moon
Your history is black
So I ask you to hold back those tears
In respect of the mothers
In respect of the graves you built
your country on.
— — —
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