Barefoot Vigil

We ceased to raise our heels long ago,

unlike the wolf, ostrich, cheetah -

shadows speeding against our waning orb.

Even the ant, under the load of crumbs stolen,

travels as the Soroko winds, with grace, undefeated.

The spring has not left our stride,

laid with our burdens;

all aftermaths of privilege,

the smittings, the finalities,

bound stiff in the souls of the conquered.

But sometimes, in the silence of a Subh prayer,

we catch the hint of that essence, up our toes,

stealing past rooms drowned in dreams,

granted sight beyond sight, beyond illusions, 

to see the dark, reliving what it must have been 

like to bear no chains.