The year was '71, they sent the letter, a formal plea 
"We need your hands, Marina," signed by the land of the free 
You believed the ink, you trusted the font, you packed the crate 
Building a bridge over an ocean just to meet your fate 
One year before the deadbolt clicked, before the iron curtain fell 
One year before the "Welcome home" turned into a "Farewell" 
You were the answer to the prayer, the labor they required
The specific kind of "human" that the industry desired 
But the bridge you built was one-way, Marina, did you know? 
That the same hands that beckoned you would be the ones to let you go?

Thirty years in the basin, roots deep in the concrete floor 
Six kids, Six reasons why you couldn't take no more 
A marriage like a hurricane, the walls shaking in the night 
But you stood like a lighthouse, holding onto the light 
'92, the city's burning, smoke thick enough to choke the sun 
You're walking through the embers, while everybody else would run 
Why? 'Cause the classroom was full, and the children were there 
You taught 'em how to breathe when there was fire in the air 
Survivor. Teacher. Anchor in the gray. 
You were exactly what they asked for, until they looked the other way.

Then I'm scrolling... click...
East 34th and Portland street 
I see a ghost in the pixels, a heart stopped in its beat 
Renee Good, kissing a son, a rosary made of glass 
A camera phone recording as the shadows start to pass 
They called you a "threat," but the lens saw you turn 
Into three bullets, into a silence that makes the stomach churn 
Poet. Mother. Gone in a flash, gone in a breath 
How does a "needed" life become a "justified" death? 
I see you on the corner, dawn breaking over the van 
An open hand for labor, just a father with a plan 
The text to your daughter still glowing, a candle in the dark 
Before they swallowed you whole and left a hole in the park.

They ask me why I'm trippin', why I'm stuck on the screen 
Why I'm seeing my lineage in every tragic scene 
Why every face looks like Sunday dinner, why every name sounds like kin 
Why I'm tracing the architecture of the struggle beneath the skin 
It's 'cause you're my Great-Grandmother, the blood in my vein 
But every soul they're hunting now is carrying your name 
Every bridge, every lighthouse, every open hand 
I see Is just another version of the woman who came before me.

Marina, look at me... would you still come?
If you knew the bridge was a trap, would you still come? 
If you knew the "invitation" was a temporary lease? 
If you knew your open hands would never know a moment's peace? 
Would you still plant the seeds in a soil that hates the bloom? 
Would you still cross the water just to find a smaller room? 

I don't know. 
I really don't know. 
But I see you in the vans, 
I see you in the streets, 
I see you in the eyes of everyone the system seeks. 

You are them. 
They are you. 
And I won't forget the bridge. 
I won't forget the truth.