We kept on walking on places our souls stumbled.

Waiting for days to remain bright but the darkness kept on falling.

Just as our hearts have rebelled against rings that never wanted to let us go,

Our eyes have always waited to give light. …We don’t know which voices these are…
We just know that our fingers have something to give,

Our pens have something to bleed,

Our eyes see us beyond closed eyelids.
Our days are butterflies with burnt wings

Our bodies will share skin beyond the pain.

When the darker days will come,

We won’t run, but’ll pray that refuge paints us a few traces of peace.
Air will be there,

No matter how little, we will breath.

Roads? No no,

Just these little paths where the dark abodes,

The very same place our roots will rise against the wind.

From the poem: Descending Voices by Vivian Agoro (@agoro_)
Photo by Bryan Jaybee (@Storitellah)


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