I can not count the ways you have cared for me,
I can never repay you for the love you shared with me,
I can never forget the wisdom uttered from your lips,
I can never forget the wondrous works of your fingertips.
I hear the heart of the ghetto beating like the thunder of an army of ancient kettle drums.
In it dwells the passion for prosperity, the power of peace, and the promise of pain.
All of these components intertwine tightly as if to form a fine cloth--in this case a quality individual.
The promise of pain, the pulse of the heart and the element which is not self-explanatory, exists because only in enduring suffering one grows stronger.