Whether given to us by the Phoenicians,
Started as cuneiform,
Or before that cave paintings.
African drumming village au village,
Bird calls on raw primitive flutes —
All close the gap —
Which separates them from them,
Me from you.
to make possible,
without a chisel and a hammer,
To take what mama gave me at birth,
Her musical stanza!
Notes swirling inside her breath
And transporting me along the long umbilical cord.
I become of age,
The age of small knowing, but knowing.
Able to mount the letters from my mind
To the tip of my pencil or pen.
To attempt the long ascent
Into a freedom to become alive.
To feel the importance of living.
To make it know,
A little life can be a little lost,
but still matter.