The strangest part may be that the darkest part of us is what understands the whitest part of you
Your wounds, bleached in the burn of those ember waves of rage—that part of you burns in us too
Freedom was a note they never thought we would reach
Let he who has wisdom hear it
Freedom is not a thing we keep but give
Let we with compassion sing it
So when we speak the matter of our lives
And you cry, “All lives matter.” And cry
We see the lyric beyond the line
We see the echoes of your wounds
But we also see the greater part beyond—that is you, I, me, we, you
You. We see you.
Don’t you see?
Together we cry freedom, power.
We try crying in tongues you understand
Cry for breath, for freedom, power
But all you hear are echoes of pasts, of pain
Of bled, White and used
Your life matters, yes. Ours matter too
And together we are so much more, beloved,
So much more than our wounds