It’s not the fall of man.
Neither the case of inferiority.
They rise to the occasion
Like sturdy eagles’ wings.
Painting their red blood on every wall,
Chanting a local song.
The skies turn blue.
The sun sparks in yellow.
The tombstones of their grandfathers
Are washed out, turning to white.
Night arrives like an unbridled horse,
Galloping under the three stars
Unhidden by clouds.
Freedom at last.
They find gratitude to their God.