We built this world with more than our hands
Before the first clay met water,
we had already shaped it in our longing
Before the yam sprouted,
we had already fed the earth with prayer
The wind remembers how our mothers hummed over broken pots,
how our fathers carved their dreams into wood and called it shelter
Every scar in the soil bears witness to a hope that refused to die quietly
We built with laughter, with grief,
with the salt of our sweat
and the weight of our waiting
We built with stories told under tired moons,
with songs that bent the dark until it listened.
Even when our palms bled, we did not stop.
Because it was never just about walls or harvests
it was about the breath behind them.