Testo: Cipher. Other. Woman.

Woman is my first and last breathe. Your plight is my plight. It weights heavy on my chest but not compared to what's heavy on your breast. The water of life that gives order to the wretched and the blessed. Who could have a mother and be Godless?
To your left is a suckling child to your chest on your right is a rifle or a knife outstretched. Nurturing love but prepared for death. I see the pain from year years of unrest. Who could have a mother and be Godless? As you look to the other and eat his burnt harvest play in the fields of burnt carcass. Regardless, remember where the start is. Who bore messiahs before men created martyrs
She was foaming out he mouth like stages of the AIDS. Hair half afro half cornbraids . One shoe in her palm the other, NIKE symbol fade. Mad pathos wanted to cry, wanted to pray for all of our souls cause look at our mother. Hands in defense as we look at in the mirror. Don't we have sense? No one can hear her. What a disgrace, we're ashamed and won't go near her.

As our guilty hearts bring in the terror. Lets Recess our minds to every era. The patriarch suppressed our human nature. And where this wasn't true. They forced us to. So, the struggle is a common one. Against the white, male, Aristocratic, moneyed, landed, Anglo-Saxon, and all his children of all races and classes. Free the woman and you'll free the masses.

WOMAN, NIGGER, WHORE. PROPHET, LIAR, BITCH. MOTHER, HARLOT, GOD

All rest in amaranthine nether. Kultur halts nature. Everlasting forward ember. Restitution enter together. She's asks her children to remember their center. Its integral cause the womb is a microcosm of the universe or vice-verse in the macro. Break from the greco-roman, euro-ethos, worshiping the flowing blond hair of a graven evil over the true history of the people. Godmother deliver me to the land of the Igbo.

Crescent Moon.

A new age has come, your day is won. Freedom. GIVE UP. Your need for EVERYTHING.
I'll raise you up battered, oppressed, always remembering through your womb, WE'LL PRODUCE, the seeds of EVERYTHING.

You're the reason why we've continue to last , against all odds, the underclass. Nzingha. The power you amass, the glory that the future presents is vast. For my sins against you in future, Present , and Past. Forgive me

Woman is my first and last breathe. Your plight is my plight. It weights heavy and its aching but not compared to how you've been forsaken. Its seems the misfortune gives order to the loving and the Hatred. How could we worship Satan and a matron?
To your left is a new borne child suckling tight to nothing on your right rife with blood is a knife in his skin. Taunting her son and prepared to sin. I see the pain from neglecting. How could we worship Satan and a matron?

You're coveted like the Ark of the Covenant, sacred.
We've strewn your garb on the floor. You lay naked
Exposed to our sardonic laughter and our hatred.
For the last time the virgin womb's awakened.
Disturbing echoes from the past, reminisce a premonition.
From your womb the rain breaks and creates a boundless ocean.
The day breaks. We drink from the endless deluge with guilt in our hearts

Ma'at, Mother Mary, make me whole. Woman I relinquish hold on all your love, on your tears, and on your hope. I'll fast for one thousands years and let an ocean of blood before I could repent for what I've done yet I know that you'll still let me close.

(Mother of grace, mother of the universe, and all of creation. I've made dirty and sullen the closest thing to purity I've known. For these things and more I am regretful and I will repent. I, by ceasing my ways, will allow the order of the universe to run its coarse and make whole what is now in disarray.)