Where is freedom in this tangle of threads?
Unspooled promises, woven tight,
beneath fingers that have stitched the same patterns—
patterns I once believed could unravel, reshape.
How can I speak of hope in voices worn and familiar,
when each attempt at change fades into the hum
of centuries’ thick fabric?

Yes, we lift our heads,
eyes clear, voices fierce,
but there’s that shadow always—
the weight of what they call “history,”
the echo of what they name “tradition.”

In boardrooms, in courts, in classrooms, in kitchens,
a tentative light glimmers, flickers, but dims.
Who defines strength?
Is it mine to wear, or just borrowed, like armour,
shed at the door of another’s approval?

Yet I stand here, fists unclenched,
with more questions than answers,
still pulling, still pushing, still weaving.
Maybe it’s enough, this stubborn thread of faith,
that one day, the loom will shift,
and a different cloth will drape the world.

Can I believe in change within a circle so vast?
In gaps so small, breaths between binds?
Yes. And in the soft spaces between,
I still see room to breathe,
to speak, to try, to hope.