What is this pain within my heart? Deeper than I can bear? It seems I’m old enough to face it, for youth did guard me from its grasp, and buried it in the graveyard of the past. Open a book and read it, the shrieking cry of my ancestors has returned. Horror, death, slaughter, rape, innocent children, men and women, mothers giving birth, fathers in the tombs, infants stripped to the thousand upon thousands, and stabbed in the womb. My land, it was mine, the home of my forefathers. An unknown and unfamiliar feeling I will never have is the sense of home, of what is mine. I see through a chasm darker than sin at the pain that forms a shrieking cry within my soul, a cry which reaches my mouth but cannot be voiced lest I perish. I will die with this pain, buried within, for when I face it, it begins to kill me and tear apart my body and mind, like the dying mother seeking to kill the one who killed the babe she kept within. It is the cry of those who came before, whose voices unheard were slaughtered before a sound was made. Yet, all the while knowing, it is genocide still today, unhealed, unknown, killing me like the those who did kill those who before in the dust did lay, who ascending beyond and above the heavens now pray.