Unbroken(For My Ancestors) Poem by O.S. Brooks

We are but one storm festering
Gathering strength,
brewing up a fight.
We come with fist fills of mud clay proclaiming freedom.
Our day is near.

We the unimaginable, lost hopefuls,
Are powerful as one.
We spin joy around the tip of our fingers proclaiming 'break time'.
Our backs are broke.
Our souls are weary.
Our day is near.

We, the shadow populace, in an effort to craft time
declare our courage,
Honor our fathers,
and pray for our unborn dream.
For our storm is rising.
With a fist full of ambition-Rising,
with the faith of a nation-Rising,
We stand.
We fall.
We get back up.
We smile.
We cry.
We dry our eyes.
Our song is strong;
it keeps us young
our day is near.
It's almost here.

We the star-light promise for a better tomorrow,
Send moonlight kisses over crowded slave quarters
where sun light barely breaks,
where grandma heals our blisters with a kiss,
and winter kills the weak.
We pass time by counting stars that are watching us,
and crash into love like waves to shore.
We dream as wide as we can stretch our minds.
Dreaming what days may come ahead
our spirits strong.
It keeps us young,
our time is near.
It's almost here.


The earth comes alive with laughter harvest time
Working.
Hurting.
Tending wounds.
Our minds are on the rain clouds
for rain drops cease the day
we move them closer with our minds
then dance.
And sing.
And feel the breeze against our sun soaked skin.
We taste each salty dropp that hits our lips.
Remembering yesterday's promise for tomorrow,
And how that unbroken promise keeps us alive.
Our thoughts are strong.
They keep us young,
our time is near.
It's almost here.