Where Rivers Meet

In the shadow of domes and marble pride,
Where flags rise high and truths collide,
Lies Anacostia—forgotten name,
Carved in struggle, born of flame.

East of the river, hearts beat slow,
Through streets where history dares not go.
A whisper of chains, a marching drum,
A silence where no justice comes.

Children walk where ghosts still speak
Of boarded homes and futures bleak.
Cracked sidewalks tell what textbooks hide—
A city split, a wounded side.

D.C. wears power like a crown,
But drops its gaze when looking down
On neighborhoods where color marks
The price of dreams, the depth of scars.

Race is not a war we win—
It bleeds in courtrooms, seeps through skin.
Each protest, chant, and tearful plea
Fights shadows draped in liberty.

Yet still, from pain, the poets rise,
With rhythm fierce and rebel cries.
Anacostia sings: we are not done.
The struggle shapes the rising sun.

So let the river speak at last,
Of futures forged, not chained to past.
May justice flow, not merely stall—
A D.C. truly free for all.