from out-stretched limbs,
the humble hands of fated flowers,
promising new growth.
of weary words from ancient tongues,
our living veins, our lengthy names,
each one a unique story
our ancestral pain,
against the fleeting fabric of our lives,
straining to be heard.
the wailing moan of those in mourning,
the lilting melody witnessing a new dawn,
the enduring chant of those for whom,
hope is a means of survival.