Valiant Scribe
A literary hub giving voice to the voiceless by retelling the human experience

Here dies a son of sun and sand, who sailed the sea to sow strange soil. You mouth your thoughts, fingers twitching words in air, as you watch your blood feeding the earth, watering the tomato vines. L'or rouge des Pouilles. Leur or est rouge de notre sang.

My home in Syria, loud bangs I hear, my hands on my ears, mama say bombs fall from the sky, she grab me down the stairs like she is the wind

The neurotic phrasing of the African dreamers, Flies up to the sky And suddenly intertwines, Like the flight of swallows, Watching from...