My ancestors’ hands

My ancestors’ hands

bathed in blood,

and buried their sins

beneath dirt

and stone

and stories.

Stories that turned being into beast,

and beast into carcass,

the living dead waiting for harvest.

They worked frantically,

because stopping meant silence,

and silence brings nightmares.

Nightmares twisted

and deformed

until villains became heroes,

and heroes became villains.

My ancestors’ hands

clutch at my throat

and cover my eyes.

So afraid of the light

that they try still to hide.

Forgetting that water

washes off blood

and quells the fire.

Dip your hands

into the river

and drink deep.

Let loose your fear

and come bathe

in the light.