Leaving my mark

Air that brushes my cheeks Air that murders the possibility to wade. Yet air does not leave a mark, Like when poetry impregnates the lives of those who march, Even when air is not enough to make them remember my lungs. This is why I write, To leave my mark, To describe my life, The feelings I hide When I tremble inside. Blood was gushed, Wars were fought, But we are still oppressed people, In a tiny island where I write my dreams. Dreams that women like me can be free. Freedom is letters on a paper, History is letters on a paper, Knowledge is letters on a paper, Culture stays in letters on a paper, My hands feel important, When I put my letters on a paper. I write to be important, Like the moon is for our crop, And the sun is for all natural life. Writing is vital for air to enter my lungs, For life to be unraveled, And dreams to grow without trouble, Marking the sand beneath the sun.