Her Hand

She holds out her hand to me in the mystic island.
The story of a butterfly she says.
Don’t let those who don’t know why they’re in this world tell you how to live in it, she adds,
What glitters may be sold.

In an unexpected twist so oblique,
Of mothers learning from their young.
She holds out her hand to me in a desert island,
Telling me of me.

She says Mamma, I know who you’d be if you were standing in a village about to be raided.
You would say, “Stand up men and fight for your souls.
Free at birth and to the death.”

She holds out her hand to me in the palm tree island,
A wildflower in a wildfire.
She continues to tell me of me,
A warrior she adds, using her drums to beat them.

On her hand the butterfly stays still.
Remarkable beauty, we stand still.
She holds her hand out to me on the mystic island,
Telling me to be free.

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