Essence

Di beauty deh inna di Light, iyah,
 it deh inna di Darkness too, seen?
 Cah a di Darkness,
 mek di Light shine brighta.

One day, Rasta deh pon di hillside, watchin Babylon smoke rise up like choked prayas lost inna confusion. Chaos down deh—clang an clamma, system bun, delusion heavy, dem fightin fi scraps of powa. Rasta feel it a bun. Not just inna di eye, but deep inna di belly. Di sacred faya. Di righteous heat. So much wrong rooted deep. So much lie coverin Truth.

But den… Jah breeze blow. Soft. Cool. Silent. Like a finga a touch pon di soul. “Rememba,” di breeze-whisper say. “Yuh no come yah fi fight faya wid faya. Yuh come yah fi know who yuh be.”

Rasta shut him eye-dem. Him heartbeat find di riddim a di Earth. Him hear di ancient drum inna him spirit. Di ancient call—no fi clash, but fi cleanse. Fi purify.

Di faya inside? No mistake. I-tal. Sacred. But faya need vessel. Need purpose. Babylon crave fi see yuh get vex, lose yuh centre, mash up yuh I-temple. Babylon feast pon dat chaos. But Rasta? Rasta forge. Rasta blaze clear. Rasta transmute faya inna steady Light. Guidin Light.

So Rasta rise. Firm. Walk back down di concrete jungle. No fi bow. No fi bawl dung. But fi stand. Fi live so true, so grounded, dat di whole crooked system catch a shadow pon itself.

Him nah carry poison hate. Him carry livin overstanding. Him no carry shackle fear. Him carry deep, deep roots. Iron roots.

Di outer war still deh. Roar an rattle. But Rasta? Rasta step outside it. Rasta plant. Rasta lay foundation Babylon cyaan corrupt nor capture: unshakeable peace inna di Heart.

An when yuh walk wid dat solid peace, bredren? Di ground shake under Babylon. Dem pillars tremble.