I feel the ancestors rising.
They scream at me through dream worlds.
Their heart-felt sighs move me.
They point towards scarred backs,
touch fearsome wounds, glare at me out of gouged eyes
bid me to always remember
that their burdens, slights, losses, lives
are mine to avenge.
The ancestors hold me tight,
giving, sending me their strength,
their will to survive.
Something is coming.
Their drums ramp to staccato,
My heart leaps, lunging for the fight,
as the ancestors gauge my armor,
checking for loose ties,
weak links and murmurs of
make your heart right!
And at once, a calm comes over me,
fear is gulped and discarded,
They move to speak again,
love for me shining like beacons,
Always remember your weapons child,
cold iron and steel are never enough.
Hope is your weapon,
Faith is your scythe.
Love is your lance.
It unmans the enemy,
gives you the element of surprise.
I leave, head held high.
I will hope, I will have faith,
and I will love my enemies
until they are vanquished
and I triumph