Inheritance (The Hood Speeks)

I was born in penance,

stitched by hands that feared God

more than man.

Ash and silence marked the streets

as I walked above bowed heads,

my own veiled in shame,

not pride.

They called me capirote,

a crown for the contrite,

my point rising

not in power,

but in prayer.

But oceans churn,

and centuries warp cloth

as easily as memory.

They took my shape

and bled it white,

cut holes to see

without being seen.

They gave me fire

instead of incense,

fear instead of faith.

Now when I appear,

no one weeps for their sins —

only for the harm I promise.

I did not choose this lineage.

I was made holy,

then made monstrous.

Not all inheritance

is willing.