Wednesday, July 10, 2013


Echoes from history,
Shout from her skin, her blood,
Her ancestry,
M.A.C had tried to contour, that nose,
Stain those lips, straighten that hair to
Shout a different type of whisper,

Those dark rimmed lips,
Much like her mother’s,

Those eyes are a window to her grandfather’s
Whose gaze was constantly fixated on the African plains, a rich a brown colour.

Skin which show the glow of the sun,
Had once radiated on her mothers skin,
And even in a land with distant a sun
Her skin tells the world where she’s from

 She gazes into the mirror and realises
I am beautiful, held in a million hearts,
Not for magazines for all to see,

With her blue diraac, she is the Somali pearl

Her grandfather used to speak off,…
Hawo Sayyid
Copyright © 2013

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