Poetry
"A Man, A Woman, A Child, A People (The Journey Has Left Us All With Nightmares)"
By Retta Lewis
By Retta Lewis
We’re still writing the ending to this story,
But the beginning was bold enough.
No one is alive to remember the story as it happened,
And no one who ever lived
Could forget the story once they knew.
A man, a woman, a child, a people.
What there was of us
Could not survive a journey across the ocean
Without dying its own brand of death--
And now, the centuries are one.
There is much reflection on the damages,
But conversation has been used to reveal nothing.
The tales of our arrival,
And the lack of any means of escape, reverberates.
The journey has left us all with nightmares--
How many have we faced?
The truth--
It will not treat this history well,
But it’s not hiding its face anymore.
Until the story is told,
The life that didn’t get lived
Is still waiting to die its death.
Unlike how history has us sorted,
We were riding out a storm;
Sorting out a journey over quicksand
With what choices we had left.
It is with the remembering that we struggle,
The facts that we stumble,
And the things we can never know.
A man, a woman, a child, a people.
How do we make sense of events
We are unable to reconcile?
The mourning period is over;
The bloody coup is complete.
Put into historical context,
We did not emerge from it unscathed.
We drew a field of darkness--
It did not serve us;
But what do we know about landmines
And snipers on the roof?
What do we know about darkness
And the damage it can do?
This is our sacrifice;
This is our discontent.
How do we emerge from it?
How do we dare?
But the beginning was bold enough.
No one is alive to remember the story as it happened,
And no one who ever lived
Could forget the story once they knew.
A man, a woman, a child, a people.
What there was of us
Could not survive a journey across the ocean
Without dying its own brand of death--
And now, the centuries are one.
There is much reflection on the damages,
But conversation has been used to reveal nothing.
The tales of our arrival,
And the lack of any means of escape, reverberates.
The journey has left us all with nightmares--
How many have we faced?
The truth--
It will not treat this history well,
But it’s not hiding its face anymore.
Until the story is told,
The life that didn’t get lived
Is still waiting to die its death.
Unlike how history has us sorted,
We were riding out a storm;
Sorting out a journey over quicksand
With what choices we had left.
It is with the remembering that we struggle,
The facts that we stumble,
And the things we can never know.
A man, a woman, a child, a people.
How do we make sense of events
We are unable to reconcile?
The mourning period is over;
The bloody coup is complete.
Put into historical context,
We did not emerge from it unscathed.
We drew a field of darkness--
It did not serve us;
But what do we know about landmines
And snipers on the roof?
What do we know about darkness
And the damage it can do?
This is our sacrifice;
This is our discontent.
How do we emerge from it?
How do we dare?
