Great oppression is born to the young, they say to each other to remind themselves. Great oppression is born, but should not grow into victory. Ploughs have been picked up and placed on the backs of those who can’t even carry themselves, but it doesn’t become a pool of pity or a web of chains. It becomes the anchor that grounds them so they’d be free to fly without having to worry about going to places they should never go to, and so as they ascend, all the dead grass that has accumulated will be shaken off, never to return.

Perhaps they will land on top of their enemies, or blow into a far-off distance to become someone else’s anchor. But as long as they stay, they sing the song of ascents to one another, and make sure no one gets lost before it’s time to fly.


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