Listen to the piece.

The breath of life brings fruit to bear,
Through thorned trees,
Rooted soil and air.

A breath that flows, not just as wind,
But in waves—like sounds of returning kin,
Preserving sacred ways of being.

Before we wed ourselves to routine,
Lost in the maze of repetition unseen,
We were made to bear the weight of stories,
To hold fidelity,
To see every color’s hue,
To design with art and melody,
And create what is new.

This breath of life, ever sublime,
Flows through caves descended, hills we climb.
It calls us— To feed our nature.

Feed it with rhythm, percussion, and snare,
With creativity and care.
Or starve it with greed—That ominous need,
Which takes far more than it ever receives
From the land, the air, and even the seas.

Still—
Built around being too Black to be Free.

But my mother is an artist.
My father is time.
Spirit, still moves,
still meets me with rhyme,
To remind you:

Breathe.

To remind you…
About your nature.