this is tradition

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the fire we keep on our tongues  
is older than hunger,  
older than the need to speak,  
a breath held under our mothers’  
bones,  
carried in wrists that twist,  
in words we never write down.

it’s not a choice—  
it's ink spilled,  
like salt scattered  
when there’s no one left to blame.

here, tradition has no face,  
only hands that work dough,   
hands that tear history into pieces  
small enough to chew. each bite  
settles heavy in our stomachs.

we draw lines in sand—  
with our feet, with our fists—  
moving through steps no one taught us,  
but somehow we know.

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