i carried you

i carried you

Part 1

i carried you

feet flat on concrete floor

pacing these halls, 

i carried you high

the way a princess

should be carried

your feet pressing into my bladder

causing me the urge to pee

my arm bent, hand into my back

soothing my sciatic nerve

i carried you

like the easal on a photo frame

i carried you

as if I were a palaquin

and You were the king

even before I gave you a name

i carried you

close to my heart

sling, slung across my neck

Or wrapped securely 

upon my back

Part 2

i carried you

through those years of self-discovery

and wishing, 

when you were finding yourself

but kept coming up 

missing

i carried you

when you were hunting

free in the fray

for trophies to adorn your wall, 

a boy at play

because real committment

you were shunning

i carried you

through it all

but to you i was prey

too stunning

as you say

a trophy

to adorn your arm

and keep the homies wanting

but i carried you anyway.

even while you were fronting

i had your back.

even more than you deserved

i picked up your slack

Even while you sat on

on my last nerve

i carried you

Part3

i carried your az 

through college

even when you had no cash

i carried you past

two side chick

skeezers

without my knowledge

worked two jobs

treated two venereal diseases

i carried you

and even after all that

i married you

i carried you

feet flat on concrete floor

pacing these halls, 

about to have your daughter, 

i carry her high

like a princess should be carried

convinced not conceited, 

what will you tell her as her father? 

when she asks, 

so that she won't live defeated, 

should she expect 

a man to treat her

with the same respect

that he expects to be treated

or should she carry the weight

of all his mistakes, 

like I carried you.

©victori 25 Aug 2022

From the Congo to the Ghetto

From the Congo to the Ghetto

Arising before Congo dawns,
to fresh air and gentle breezes,
the merchants, traders and artisans,
worked until daylight ceased.

They built homes carved from ogbegbe trees,
along tree lined avenues,
and wove silk sails, to sail the seas,
in hand crafted wooden canoes.

Talking drums, and braided hair,
and funerals bedecked in white,
drank palm wine, and played Oware,
our culture at its height.

Congo nights, of waning sun,
and dancing beneath the trees,
before the coming to Alkebulan
of the Portuguese.

Our language lost, we seek in vain,
and endlessly endeavor,
to secure passage rites, and regain,
our culture that was severed.

Although, we were content, whether,
our roots were Bantu, Ilebo, or Bushongo,
seems we can’t remember ever,
living in the Congo.

Arising now, before ghetto noons,
to pollution and an ozone layer,
unemployed December to jobless June,
surviving on a wing and a prayer.

Tenements and slums,
along littered avenues,
drunkards and illiterate bums,
and crack houses to abuse.

Processed hair and ghetto boxes,
blaring on the night,
synthetic drugs and narcotic toxins,
our culture in its flight,

Ghetto nights of uzi’s exploding,
and brother’s dying in the street,
a recurring sense of depression aboding,
but difficult to defeat.

Though our vision be blinded,
by our oppresor’s hand
we seek to be reminded
of another land.

And though, we are troubled yet,
from Watts to the townships of Soweto,
seems we can’t, ever seem to forget,
living in the ghetto.

victori~1996

Calling Up, Lord Hear Our Cry

We don't want pity,

I love my people,

We take our sorrow,

and sing it pretty,

Calling up tomorrow,

to be a better day,

We turn insult into song,

We been singing the blues since psalms,

We define the meaning of strong,

overstand the lies, rejuvenate bad news,

Turn our pain into tools,

calling up a better way,

We don't suffer fools,

We turn the hate you spit with spite,

into jewels,

Turn havoc into calm,

Let you see where love rules,

We been singing wrongs into Civil rights,

lamentations for the lives we lose

E V E R Y N I G H T

Calling up the strength to fight!

We been down in the belly of the beast,

stared the devil in her face,

Saw the value of our lives decrease,

As if you could ever pay or replace,

What a life is really worth

When stolen by a thief,

Who thinks his manifest destiny,

is the very earth, and air, we breathe,

What is worst?

Than a thief who takes a life

And doesn't care,

Than a thief, who believes his own lie,

Than a liar who believes her own words,

Than a man who exalts himself so high,

Than a man's claim that he's greater,

Than God he insists,

Than a soldier who falls on her own sword,

We heed the battle song and resist,

Calling up the help of the Lord!

We conquered oceans and seas,

and survived,

We out lived your biological manmade disease,

And survived,

Fought a War to end slavery,

Been hung from trees, and are still alive,

won acts of valor for our bravery,

fought In every American War,

We knocked out Jim Crow,

Turned his blood into balm,

We, who have been singing the blues

since psalms,

We know these lyrics by heart,

We don't need your permission to kneel,

for those slain martyred,

Whose voices are forever stilled,

We sing a new song for the slaughtered,

Not your slave anthem!

We give God the oblations,

As justice is held for ransom

We heed the calling,

Can you hear it?

We pour out libations,

for the fallen,

Calling up their spirits.

Victori © Sept 16, 2016

Desolate Place

How did I get to this place?
How did I come to this desolate place,
where nobody seems to be,
where there's no love anywhere,
and everyone hides behind lying eyes,
because nobody really cares,
because nobody seems to see.

How did I get to this place?
How did I come to this desolate place,
This wasn't where I was going
when I started out,
This wasn't the itinerary intended,
This wasn't my expected arrival when I departed out,
This wasn't my desired ending,
This isn't how I'd planned it,
in the beginning.

When I began this journey,
filled with good intentions,
ALL high on life, saving the world, and yearning,
but something occurred,
at the intersection of Youth and Learning,
where the two roads converged,
I procrastinated too long in doubt,
then got swept away by the crowd,
I wasted too much time on Youth
before I was able to figure it out,
and ended up somewhere between 
Intellectual and Girls gone wild,
for anyone to take me seriously.
The road to freedom, ain't free,
There's a toll to be faced,
Here I land in the Valley of Now,
No smile on my face, and wondering
How did I get to this place?

How did I get to this place?
I studied too long,
So much time did I waste,
I wandered off wrong,
Now I'm way off the map
with no way to get back,
How did I come to this desolate place?
where nobody seems to be,
where everyone hides 
behind lying eyes,
because nobody seems to see,
That the road to Love has closed,
and there's hot lava flowing in the streets, 
The Leader of the free world is the hate we chose,
and the relief that comes to Puerto Rico,
is thrown toilet sheets,
And once I felt we overcame,
Now we're back to where we used to be,
where everywhere the world stays the same
without any changes from me.

~victori~ ©

Always Our Roots

ALWAYS...

Our roots 

Dug deep in American soil cling
only to the surface crawl
across ungiving ground pulled
hybrid tubules, sprout
in all directions now
From Cameroon waters plucked,
From our own waters, placed
in to the tears, our mother's shed
in to the mouth of a vase, clipped,
rerooted in new waters, planted,
rare flowers yearning for the forest ripped
from and carelessly scanted,
in to fields of ungiving day,

By ungiving day thrived,
from sunrise to sunset worked
On neglect survived,
Up from the sandy loam, we arise,
We weren't meant to stay,
Perennial flowers in a field alive
Meant to work and die,
We return each May,
We sprout anyway,
Like chaparral on a hill aflame
baptized by fire and futility,
We seek our given name,
Out of the murk and mire,
We sprout a new beauty 
Not anyone to bear the blame

for those millions gone,

No right, no wrong, no shame, hush

we live for them,
They died for US!

©victori May 8, 2018

A Response to a Fool

In response to Joyner Lucas...

"I'm not racist," you say?

seems to be the code word,
'word up' of the day,
because if you really wasn't,
you wouldn't have shit to say,
In the sixties,
We use to change negatives
into superlatives too,
in order to make the best of
a bad situation,
so when something was good
we'd say "That's bad!"
although it was the best we ever had.
The opposite of what you're trying to do,
Make a positive phrase,
Suit your negative ways,
because we know who you are,
When you show up,
You rappin' that trap,
thinkin' it's spit,
It's just throw up
R E G U R G I T A T I O N !🤮
of over six-hundred years,
of discrimination!
In what era do you want us to show up?
The Montgomery of 1955,
was still alive in Ferguson 2005,
And is still prevalent today,
We don't have to go back to slavery days,
We can start with Jim Crow,
That wasn't that long ago,
The peonage and the lynchings,
replete with photographs, that remain,
Of the assailants standing in a fog,
surrounding, smiling unflinching,
and the culprit's stilled laugh,
uttering a silent refrain,
Lest we forget,
That "what is past is prologue,"
Then take a seat,
Or better yet stay asleep,
"Those who forget the past,
Are doomed to repeat."
It's as many whites as there are blacks,
who rely on welfare to eat,
Let's deal with the facts,
And I gotta' job!
JUST LIKE YOU!
without regret,
But there are those, let's be brief
who may have a felony beef,
trying to make a hustle selling cigarettes,
On a city street, to feed their families,
who deserve to breathe too.
LIKE ME AND YOU!
Instead, what do they get,
slaughtered for the world to see,
like in those old pictures, yet
Their murderers walk free.
Don't think you can halt,
How long I choose to morn,
My grief is what your forefathers bought,
coupled with my scorn,
As long as there's no statute
of limitations on, grief
So you best believe I will
Continue to pour out libations for Eric Garner,
Latasha Harlins, and Emmitt Till,
As you continue to imitate our flow,
Like a thief.
Instead of joining the alt-right,
You need to exit stage left, and join us,
White man,
because you're deluded
if you feel you're included,
in the rich man's plan!

Victori ©

It's all I ask?

What was his name?

That man, that man,

Of African birth who came,

So many generations past,

So very long ago,

So many questions asked,

And none who really know,

What was his name?

That man, that man,

If he were Akan,

He would have been named in order of his birth,

His name could have been any given Sunday,

He would have been given a soul name first,

 A name chose by Nyamewaa or Nyame

with another name to determine his life's worth,

But what if he were born in Burundi,

Nzikobanyanka, ("I know they hate us.")

Or if he were Yoruban,

He could have been born at time of festival

Abiodun, or the son of Royalty, Abioye,

What was his name?

That man, that man,

Who carried my DNA,

From sight unseen past,

into this present day,

What was his name?

Is all I ask?

Was he Igbo?

He was human first,

Before he was slave,

And the destruction of his identity,

which was the worst,

that ever became of us,

What was his name?

 Before that ship depart,

Was his name Chimaobi?

Did God know his heart?

victori7 ©

The Unbroken Reed

Written in answer to A Musical Instrument by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

What was he doing the great god Pan?
Do you really want to know?
Down by the River Oyan,
Where the Nigerian reeds grow,
provoking greed and creating a riot,
between the Yoruba, Dahomey, and Igbo
instigating wars and spreading blight.

He separated the reed from the rush, the Great God Pan
to divide and conquer the brush,
and took the reeds to a faraway land,
to labor like dogs to the mush,
from sun up to sun wan, fueling his greed,
He beat the blues from the reeds,

High on the deck of his ship, the Great God Pan
crowded the reed in the hull,
filled with disease, infection, and mayhem
kept them in line with a gun and a whip,
reducing their complaints to null,
and begrudging their Gods be damned.
He conquered their spirits in full.

He laughed at their pain, did the great God Pan
and drew their blood with the lash,
but music their groans became,
even on the hole of the asp.
like instruments, these reeds rang,
like the flute, the horn, and the sax,
though they inhaled pain,
They blew out jazz.
Negro spirituals in the fields of cane.

He stole them away from the River's edge,
to never again see their home,
but like the poet said,
in the Browning poem,
"He hacked and hewed as a great god can,
with his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
til there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
to prove it fresh from the river."

A taker, not a giver, was the great God Pan,
so destined to live his manifest plan,
more a beast and less of a man,
he deforested the forest from the rain,
and caused the climate to change,
He never replenished the seed,
He drew the pith from the heart of a man,
and has never amended the deed.


These reeds grow now on a different plain, despite the Great God Pan,
bruised but unbroken, but then,
still a metaphor of a man,
The loss of roots is the cost of pain,
and of ancestors whose lives not lived in vain,
For the reed which grows nevermore again,
As a reed with the reeds of the River Oyan.

By Victori Bass ©


Browning's Poem

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806–1861

687. A Musical Instrument

WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat	5
With the dragon-fly on the river.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river;
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,	10
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
While turbidly flow'd the river;
And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can	15
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan
(How tall it stood in the river!),	20
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notch'd the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.
'This is the way,' laugh'd the great god Pan	25
(Laugh'd while he sat by the river),
'The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.	30
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly	35
Came back to dream on the river.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain—	40
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds of the river.

For One

Passport picture1999 when I first got locks

I fried dyed
Committed suicide
Laid you to the side
Cloning my dome,
After the ladies of Rome, I'm sorry,
Imitation is the sincerest form of harikari
I greased teased
But could not appease you,
Disguised you with weaves
Bordering on the brink
Between bone straight and curly kink,
Each time you had to juggle,
You rebelled, my wave
A symbol I think of strength and struggle,
Of ancestors too proud to live as slaves,
I termed you unruly, my beauty,
Tackled you, like Jacob at war with the Angel
Declared war against my natural tangle
Shackled you, in hair rollers and curling irons
Deployed anthrax spills of blonde and really red
To defeat my crown, you shifted
but would not be lifted
Ignoring my insistence upon inclusion
Amongst the living dead
You kept going back
Growing back, staying black
Defying that illusion,
And now I have reached the conclusion
That you are the true permanent
The God sent, the advertisement
That I love myself
Define myself
Allow myself to be
I place my hair on lock down
With my locked crown
I surrender do or die
Extract the cataract
From my third eye
And now I truly see
That without those chains of inferiority
I am truly F R E E!

Victori-04/01/99

Between Sisters (For Gypsy Rose)

A bond exist between sisters,
It exist between brothers and sisters too,
But where a sister may be fine,
To resign, to just crying it through,
A brother may be quick,
To come to the rescue with fist,
And reduce a nuisance with violence,
Where a sister will play it cool,
And violence eschew,
She'll duel in her mind, like a science,
With a defiant DNA shared,
Between sisters.

A science that only a woman knows,
A strength that grows in cycles,
That recycles every new moon, it shows,
Like a perennial flower,
that returns each June,
She wears this strength on her shoulders,
Like a coat against rain,
And elbows through the pain,
She pushes past boulders,
But smiles anyway,
Determined to get to that one day older,
Because she knows,
That to make it to tomorrow,
She has to get through today.
This is a patience that persist
Between sisters.

And to speak of compassion,
We knew each other from the womb,
Like a psychic contraction,
Even after being surrounded by brothers,
I knew, I'd meet my sister soon,
Could there ever have been,
a beginning for this?
This my sis,
has been a life of laughter,
Of turns and twist,
of whispered secrets,
Of late night banter,
The one true happily-ever-after,
The love that exist,
Between sisters.

I remember the path she set,
An entrepreneurial spirit,
When others sisters wouldn't hear it,
And shunned all knowledge,
Too busy painting their nails,
Or buying Sasoons,
She was building her nest,
selling purple balloons,
Pursuiing her quest,
To work her way through college,
Setting an example to
The best and brightest,
And anyone willing to gamble,
That there is no rest, for the righteous,
Between sisters.

She taught us how to go get it,
And maintain our dignity,
Let the chips fall where they may,
But maintain our integrity,
And don't fall with it,
Because it doesn't matter
where you come from,
but where you begin,
And from there it only matters,
Where you go,
And where you end.
No itinerary,
No apologies,
No mysteries,
Or reasons to pretend,
Between sisters.

Victori ©

Griot Soul

It was the griot soul

who wrote our history

on walls in graffiti,

and scribbled our scriptures,

in graphic mystery,

painting our likeness in cerulean mixtures,

undeniable hieroglyphic pictures,

of who we were meant to be.

It was the griot soul

Who cared about the young, 

who'd come after us,

who wrote their story in dung

on papyrus,

to let them know, 

they were not a curse,

but let truth show,

that they were Africa's

children first.

Have you ever heard the spirits speak,
encourage caution, and whisper warnings?
Have you ever been who the spirits seek,
in the early dawn of the morning?

 It was the griot soul

who composed our spirituals,

chanting litanies of our past,

in dance and song,

and to our own selves held true,

we strummed our misery, 

from the bowels of jazz,

and from that labor pain, 

gave birth to the blues,

It was the griot soul

Who carved our memories,

into monuments of Olmec collosal stone,

then left them by the sea,

and like any document ever known,

these heads speak volumes for all the world to see, 

On the West bank of the Nile at Aswan,

sleeps the governor whose beautiful mind,

caused a griot to inscribe his autobiography down,

and another to sculpt his head onto the body of a lion.

and place him in the desert for time reknown,

a guardian of time and truth,

some mistake him for Khafren,

but he is the Governor Harkhuf.

Have you ever heard the spirits speak,
encourage caution, and whisper warnings?
Have you ever been who the spirits seek,
in the early dawn of the morning?

We once communicated in talking drum,

We who the Dynasties built,

We don't know anymore where we're from,

And some don't even ask it,

We who once stitched our stories in quilts,

And wove our secrets in baskets,

don't know from whence we've come,

Or even question if the story we're told is true,

You should never let the enemy hold the pen,

because when your story is through,

The only person who will remember you when,

Is the griot soul in you!

Have you ever heard the spirits speak,
encourage caution, and whisper warnings?
Have you ever been who the spirits seek,
in the early dawn of the morning?

I have...

Victori Bass  ©

  

The Griot Soul

23 Jazz Riff

23 Jazz Riff

Nimble fingers pace,

across 23 bars,

like Emanon on base,

plucking jazz from the mitochondrial dust,

of nameless stars,

half identical by descent, in  F sharp,

swung in recombinant syncopation,

groove to an ancestral tune,

played in residual replication,

This DNA gyrase two step,

jibes because of a dance,

down the big boss line of generations,

glides across our mother tongue

dips and slides,

as Afro-rican as

Johnny Blas

as mambo as

latin jazz,

survives, like Irish trad,

gyrates the hips,

like a congo drum,

its heart beats, so give it some,

what beautiful music made are we,

composed of a genome,

mixed and sampled on a keyboard of 23,

segments of a chromosome,

in perfect harmony ~victori

For Eric Garner...

My heart is broken,
Its time to grieve,
fight back the tears,   I'm choking,
I can't breathe,
I can't believe,
this been going down,
since Emmett Till,
whether it was Georgia's Sam Hose
or Los Angeles's Latasha Harlins,
Will it ever end?
every black mother knows,
Lady Justice ain't no friend,
She's lynching still.

July 13, 2013 Victori ©

Sun Loving

Being photo bombed by the sun,
No strength to spurn it's advances,
Every California girls dream to be the one,
It's radiant beam romances,
ravages, then remisses,
sends a flower to in its ray,
warmly caresses, and sun kisses,
makes me feel it's Valentine's Day,
Left in the radiance of euphoric bliss,
romanced and de-flowered,
feeling the exuberance in this,
joy, makes me strong and empowered.

Victori ©

All Be Free! (The poem)

We left there on the run,
in the moonlight,
as his body swung,
from a tree,
in plain sight,
his skin hung,
like bark from a hickory,
charred now into unfamiliarity,
We left there on the run,
We didn't look behind us,
We avoided the sun,
We didn't have a compass,
We left there on the run,
Not a second to kill,
Only ourselves to save,
with hounds at our heels,
An escaping slave,
On the run,
We saw their intention,
in the way that he hung,
meant to scare us into retention,
but without the effect,
for which they'd longed,
hoping they wouldn't detect,
that we had gone,
We left there on the run,
between thicket to thicket,
from the swamp, where we'd begun,
No sound only crickets,
with just rags, and welps on our back,

No tickets,

No tags,

No gun,

No time to wonder what we'd become,
freedom was on the horizon,
concepts we could only fathom,
until we left there on the run,
We moved swiftly from slavery to War,
To Reconstruction,
Like returning through the No return door,
into the Great Migration,
We left there on the run,
Fleeing into self-determination,
leaving the shared Southern crop,
on the Plantation,
Letting the hoe, the plow, and sickle drop,
And running to Northern discrimination,

Peonage,

And mass incarcerations,
We left there on the run,
Singing, we shall overcome,
S o m e d a y,
With either a pencil, a pen, or a gun,
Until they killed our leaders,

One by one,

Gone our eloquent speakers,

Our chosen sons,

Our chiefs,

We wanted to run,

We stopped for grief,

and dropped our gunny sack,
Only once, to nap
and fill our lungs with crack,
Our chosen exile,
Government subsidized,
And ready to sell,
Government supplied,
cash crop needing slaves to bale,
We waxed foul,
They caught us trapped,
in Public housing,
Disenfranchised,
and herded to jail,
by the dozens, 

Labeled criminal element,

Even when we wasn't.

Patter roller come,

Kill our sons without flinching,

Claim they had a gun,

Just another lynching,

We left there on the run,
Degree in hand,
We moved from intern,
to self made man,
to doctorate, to resident,
from uneducated to learned,

To President,

And now we've come,

To where we'll be,

We'll march, but we won't run,

No more until every man

Is free


victori--©

That One

I am that one,
The one who will love you til the end,
I am that one,
The one who remains your one true friend,
I am that one,
The one with courage under fire,
I am that one,
The one with the resolve of McGuyver,
I am that one.
The one who will still be going strong,
Yes, I am that one 

The one who is a survivor,
I won't beg you to stay,
I'm not that one,
I won't cry you a song,
If you got to go away,
Then just hang up the phone,
I am not being mean,
We just weren't meant to be,
And it remains to be seen,
What's heaven sent for me,
I am not that one,
To make your life a living hell,
But I am that one,
The one who will watch you go,
And wish you well.
And when all is said and done,
At the end of the day,
I am always that one, 

The one who got away.

victori-- © Mar 2, 2012

U M O J A (U N I T E D)

Could it be you've heard of me,

though we've never chanced to meet?

or maybe, we shared a common ancestor,

amid the Saharan heat?

My ancestors were Fulani,

Yoruba and Oyo,

Our cousins were Ashanti,

Hausa and Sokoto,

I am the Mansa's daughter,

The Griot from Segu, 

Could it be we've met before,

somewhere in Timbuctoo?

My mother? An Angolan warrior,

fighting the Portuguese,

In Queen Nzingha's army,

bringing white men to their knees,

My brothers? all noblemen,

scholars at Jenne´

before the transatlantic voyage,

seized them from Goree´

We were the language people,

fluent in Bantu and in Boor,

before they suppressed our languages,

our customs, and our mores,

They churched us with Jesus,

in the belly of 'The Whale'

before they sold us into slavery,

and delivered us straight to hell,

divided us by dozens,

and separated us by lots,

branded each of my cousins,

to be sold, bartered, bought,

Could be that you know me,

think you've seen my face before?

because they separated my family,

as soon as we reached the shore,

Sold my brother to a rural planter,

Sold my mother to an urban store,

kept my sister in the big house,

and forced her to become massa's whore,

Could be that you've seen Tom?

can you tell me which way he run?

Got tired of working from dawn,

To the setting of the sun,

He plotted insurrection.

the day he broke his chains,

can you tell me in which direction,

He ran off in the rain?

Could be he followed a northern star,

on an underground train,

He is my grandpa,

bound by a DNA chain,

and what a story he could tell,

if only he had a name to claim

and a "free" paper trail.

Could it be you know me now?

Don't I look the same?

Could it be you seen me,

just a little while ago?

fighting to be free,

from Jim Crow

You think I should turn the page?

You tell me to get over it,

say the pain will subside with age,

but until you've ever lost a loved one,

then you can't understand my rage,

I thought slavery had ended

in the year of jubilee,

instead I found my love offended,

tarred and feathered,

strung from a tree,

even after two Civil Rights bills,

we still ain't free,

I know now you know me,

I know now that you do,

Allow me to introduce myself,

For brother I am you!

Victori © written 1992 second revision