We locked our wisdom into our bones

We locked up our wisdom into our bones

And swallowed the keys

They sank in our rivers of blood

And we forgot the maps

Because we had to forget the mysteries

To keep them safe.

We wove our hair into brooms

And swept over our paths

And then burned the earth with our rage

We didn’t teach our children

It was the only way to protect them, we thought.

But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys

And told them stories and riddles and songs

With no roots, just tangled threads

That would take years to unwind

Just enough time

For the rains to fall again

And put out the fires.

For the dams to break

For the rivers to flood

For the paths to be walked again

For the soil to breathe.

And as the old bones crumble

Deep beneath the rubble,

We find we’ve always had the keys.

Our stories and our maps

Our paths are revealed to some

And the seeds grow again.

The threads are unspun

And woven again

– Amara Bronwyn Hollow Bones


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