I learned too late, the world was never wrong,
It only mirrored what already dwells.
Within the hearts of those who name the strong,
And cage the rest inside their woven shells.
We rise through doors they swore would never yield,
We climb the ladders painted clean and white;
Yet every hand that claps us from the field
Still weighs our worth beneath the borrowed light.
We draw our lines, we polish what they see,
We wash our names in silence, pride and grace.
But skin remembers what it used to be;
And truth still trembles underneath the face.
No height can free us from that ancient art,
The shadow that lives inside the human heart.