narration of unspoken things

a poem by Sinaso Pamela Mxakaza, South Africa

In reality we are the fibres of our mother's being. I swear god found his reigning place somewhere between a mother's thick skin, her heart and soul. She wears her heart on her skin. She's beauty. The part in the song where the melody kisses your feet lovingly and makes a home of your heart.
When we age we give birth to our mothers, they become fragile creatures in need of tender care.
I've cried so much to erase the sight of a strong woman giving into age and flesh. I'm finding god in her every pore, vessel and depth.
In reality life is sad and tragic with varying shades of beauty and sunshine. It's been a rainy season for many suns. Feels like i have to recite life back to my mother so she knows she raised me right. Even if i am an earthquake and sometimes a storm on a sunny day.. I marvel at the universe she is. The revelation with heavy lids but no apology for living a wicked man's tale. These are the stories of our lives. I hope you remember to narrate them to our children so they don't forget us. In tragedy, truth and merrily. So they find themselves in our haunted and tired eyes and know they didn't ridicule god. We were merely byproducts of lost times trying to find our destinies in fortunes' hands. Calling on my grandmother to show her how the world wears her daughter. I seek healing in my sleep. I sleep at god's feet. I have sleepless nights about how we can never figure this life out. We hope for better days...

Our children have nomadic eyes
your eyes

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