They call me ugly,
so they think they must shout,
as if my skin, my hair,
my silence,
were crimes.
But their voices crack,
their anger is hollow,
for beauty is not theirs to give,
nor mine to beg.
I carry the face of my people,
the lines of the mountains,
the eyes of exile.
If they must yell,
let them yell at the sky—
I remain.