Paracetamol legends I know
For rising fevers, as pain-relievers:

Of my people - father's father's mother's
Mother, dark lush hair caressing her ankles
Sometimes, sweeping earth, deep-honey skin,
Amber eyes - not beauty alone they say - she
Married a man who murdered thirteen men and one
Lonely summer afternoon her rice-white teeth tore
Through layers of khaki, and golden white skin to spill
The bloodied guts of a British soldier who tried to colonize her.

Of my land - uniform blue open skies,
Mad-artist palettes of green lands and lily-filled lakes that
Mirror all - not peace or tranquil alone, he shudders - some
Young woman near my father's home, with a drunken husband
Who never changed; she bore his beatings everyday until on one
Stormy night, in fury, she killed him by stomping his seed bags.

We: their daughters.
We: the daughters of their soil.

We, mostly, write.