I speak of these voices of home,

Voices that guide and sustain my entirety

Voices that resonate in my dream

Voices that toughen and strengthen me in the face of despair

Voices that rekindle reassurance of success in the depth of failure’s ditch.

Voices that make me seal my mind against the negativity of those other low-toned malicious voices

Voices that make the sweet savour of joy soil my tongue in the heat of labour while the ground embraces the much sweat that flees my pained existence.

Voices that teach me to love, over and over again even when my heart darkens in bitterness.

Voices, whose conveyed words mix with the air I breath, soaking and filling every inch of me as I inhale to live once again.

Voices that sometime come to me in the ligtest of tones and while they may also come wearing reverberating thunderous tones.

Voices that whisper about their neglected historical being upon which blood has been spilled and lives lost, but still stand to put a smile on their laboured unity.

Voices that don’t judge me when shots of burning liquor plunge down my throat…just so I can have another moment, another away from worries

Voices that remind me of the outside recurring happiness, if only I look to appreciate

Voices that make me thirst for the beautiful moments of sunset and moonlight, of dark clouds accompanied by showers of rain.

Voices that cause my mind to romp while I peep out of the window of the danfo bus.

Voices that speak of tradition and respect, of purpose and excellence regardless of the current situation I’m nested in.

Voices that stir our thoughts towards the sweet home of originality while we reside in a foreign land’s comfort.

These are the voices of my mother,
Of the many tongues upon which my indigeneity was born.

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