“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.
