Let's talk about a prayer of a clear, azure sky After explosives have burned and exhausted themselves in the streets (a poem that I intend to share with fellow poets, humanists, and all my women comrades in March, the phenomenal #WomensHistoryMonth) (a poem that is loosely inspired by or based on the poem of resistance and empowerment titled "Still I Rise" written by Maya Angelou).
Let's read "Still I Rise," the fiery words of a burned-out poet after our darkest dreams return to their shivering abyss with their dead limbs and hands.
Let's liberate the landscape of our desires and explode into screams while primal venom of oppression writhes and burns in the deep, dark grave of our past.
How about we embrace, take, get the unwritten original copies
Of our abused friends and relatives, and praise them,
Let the countercurrent of our jotted stanzas
Get comfortable our skins, bubbling like 'opposition'.
Let it rain like a ferocious cloudburst, falling on flooded rivers at night when the tide is high.
The muddy river bank finds solace in the chaos thanks to the deep, ominous rain poems we bleed.
Hope surrounds the nakedness and grows like an unstoppable flame as pyres burn and dark graves are buried.
Never miss authentic Indian women's stories.
Let's covertly and unnoticedly keep the hope alive as our flames fade.
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