hear our ankles crackle for the holy children. Bouncing on mountains, the yellows of our eyes turning to ice. We raise our crescent hooks to the Oujila sky, hop to the rhythm of the clouds. We become godly as our fadin’ moon spines curve. Oh ancestors, color us neon and back again
holler til our gold skirts return to the motherland. Our circle becomes choir, sing to the mango cheeks of our children and wrap our baldness in the spirits. We sprout clay trees for the women of these sands, say
beads hangin’ down those trees, we sweat gold the color of the grounds. Ohhh ancestors, feed our shadows with your divine melanin. Heal the earth with our cries.