Fingertips chafed, knuckles bruised
I keep pulling, holding on to these ropes made of of air
Palms pale, lifelines dark
I sink to my knees, my head bent in prayer

I carved out my spine
I bowed to the blood eagle, I gave you my lungs
I danced with the shadow people
I learned their ways, their arts, their tongues

My ears closed open, my eyes wide shut
I let the ground drown me, the colors so brightly dark
My tears spill silver, my scars shine gold
I raise my head, I rise, I will make my mark

-Chiseche

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