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Will we rise, Mama?
Will we mount our golden carpet of fringed relations?
And soar into a galaxy of indescribable fortunes.
Will we rise?
Not to exchange trusts for truths,
No tit for tat,
But dependency everlasting.
And will we rise above ourselves, Mama?
Not me and you, but “I” and “me.”
It’s us. It’s the heart of the Spirit…
And not the pleasures of mankind.
Will we rise, Mama?
To rewrite history. A real history. A true history.
Our history is now inauthentic.
And our love, Mama.
Bent. Broken. But not yet shattered.
Will you rise?
And become a force of my future.
Or will you not…
And become a nightmare of my past.
Will you Mama?
Will you…