Today,
I sing a song for my mother,
Hoping that the winds carry my words to her ears,
Hoping that my words lull her to sleep
And blanket her with the peace this world didn't offer,
Hoping that they help her learn to smile,
As she may have done when she first stepped upon this earth.

Yesterday,
I wrote a song for my mother,
A song of sadness, of laughter and lachrymal sorrow,
But she was long gone before I finished it.
We knew each other for ten thousand sunrises and sunsets.
I suckled from her breasts, milk and sweat from hours of toiling.
I latched onto the strength and fragility emanating from her bones.

For as long as I knew her,
The map of mother Africa lined her face —
One that may have once shone with the brilliance of the dark clay
from which it was molded —
Her eyes screamed of pain and tiredness,
But she never dropped the hoe.

'A woman needs a crown', everyone said,
But she's tried a drunk, a farmer and a plumber;
They all fell short.
So she took her hoe to the soil herself,
Harvesting the bread to win her family.

But a woman needs a crown,
And to that I concur.
But mama, you crowned yourself with dirt.
One whose words crushed your bones,
Whose fists mashed your flesh,
Whose fingers drowned the proceeds of your sweat.
Whose body sullied mine and yours every single time,
You were just a bit more patient like your mama said.

Today,
I sing a song for my mother,
Hoping that the winds carry my words to her ears,
Hoping that my words lull her to sleep,
And blanket her with the peace this world didn't offer,
Hoping that they help her learn to smile,
As she may have done when she first stepped upon this earth.