You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
(‘Still I Rise,’ Maya Angelou)
Write me with your counterfeit verdicts,
Bury me with falsehoods under the floor,
Seal me alive with the broken things,
But from the hollow, like wind, I’ll soar.
Does my surefooted flight trouble you?
Does my steady hand in your languor stick?
Do my long hours make you uneasy?
Does my scrupulousness prick?
Do you so detest my fallen tribe?
Do you hear one tale and proscribe?
Do you wish us to be your monsters?
The tailormade victims of your diatribe?
I wake before the light.
I stitch. I count. I tend no trophies,
I sacrifice my night,
In exchange of small catastrophes.
Would you like to see the scars?
In order to jeer and mock?
Will you be able to count the hours,
When justice kept its stock?
My hands still do the work,
My promises are still kept.
My quiet debts linger and smirk,
For none have ever slept.
Transcending the nights of banishment,
I soar.
Towards the unsoiled morrows,
I soar.
I am the boons my ancestors became,
The promise of freedom, beyond all shame.
I soar,
I soar,
I soar …
Photograph Courtesy: PetrCZ, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 