Somedays, we find ourselves weaving words into poems, each line a tribute to the women who nurtured us, the lovers who held us, and the fathers whose shadows we walk in. These verses become our solace, our way of remembering and honoring the fragments of our lives.

Sometimes, our pens become the voice for an entire continent, a collective cry for healing and justice. We write not just for ourselves, but for the countless souls who share our pain, our struggles, and our dreams. In these moments, our words become a balm, a beacon of hope in a world that often feels so unfair.

We write for everyone else because their wounds are our wounds, their battles our battles. We are all bleeding, our hearts heavy with the weight of an unjust world. Our black skin bears witness to the history of suffering, the legacy of those who faced the lynchers’ cruelty.

Yet, in our writing, we find strength. We find a way to stand tall, to resist, to remember, and to heal. Our words become a testament to our resilience, a reminder that even in the darkest times, we can still create beauty, still find hope, still dream of a better tomorrow.

© Beatriz Esmer

Dry Pastel Art – Ancestrais