In the revolution, I want to be a scribe

She who died, pen in hand

Sketching a new world order

For all her sons and daughters

Yeah, that’s what I want to be

Translator of the prophecy

God’s mouth on my ear

I just want to hear the plan

I want to write the words that will heal this land in a way everyone understands…

I just want to be the scribe

The one of some who hears the song

That my people have needed for so long

As they’ve wandered in this distant land

Unconnected to indigenous roots

Fed lies on spoons called truth

Three quarters a man

Treated lower than dogs

With knees on their necks

And their minds in a fog

Of trauma persistent for generations

Yet, builders of cities and towers and creations

That made the world gaze at this nation

But so many were so hard pressed in body and spirit

To climb out of their station…


In this revolution, I want to be a scribe

I want to give light to the plight and the rights denied

And I want to fight with my pen

so that we could be freed…

Yet again…

But this time on another level where we could revel in the glory of the permanent win

Yeah, my people

Sing the revolution, and I’ll write the solution

And this time we’ll hold it tight. Alright?

Regina YC Garcia, 06/05/2020