Dear Lera X, you are beacon of love and fire to our fallen brethren reduced to nothing but desolate shells of themselves. This thus of freedom cutting across sons and moons and lands of this spirit. You are masses of fabled rebels who you courage by its name and passion by its flame, but later ex, they still have no idea of your color. But you are the one dimensional, you spread from decorating mothers with life. You are fest and fird heavens, drippled dark moon goddess in the heart of Azania and Kermit. You are irrefutable, tans that exude and speak revolution. Storys of first unfamiliar residences underneath seas and encodes of vessels and thus, you remain unforgettable memories. You are acoustic sounds in mantras, percussion in reminiscence, the light that shines black and the ink that is life, songs by ebbers marching ashore begging waters to swallow them back to their ancestors. You are more that even death cannot defeat the bloody storms that resurrected man and women wearing shields and rainbows of flesh. You are gups wrapped around lines of African stories to nimble to break. You are gawd, a batman roaser and weenie impetus that tend toes into deserts. You are prayers in mountains and mountains of prayers re-inconnecence of infants who found their ways back to their mothers' wombs and saw you a god of life and waters. You are healing and beauty, rivers of five fingers, you are blessings in green's consonants, dancing in sea levels to black. For nasal's to pronounce and I speak of you. I speak of you as black history in kelly hairs and nappy afros cracking, skulls of humans who own humans but latter ex. They still don't know who you are. And I guess they will never do.