RIDDLE
Three mothers ring my cradle,yet none can hold my stride.My kin wear borrowed grins,their laughter fossilized.
We fly without a feather,on wires, teeth, and gas;the ground is law to others—to us, a broken glass.
A father locked a secretin marrow, key, and bite;a scream can stitch an armyto one ancestral spine.
Across a desert made of threadsthe footsteps all align;a slave who baked the world its breadstill kneads it, lost in time.
Beyond the salted borderI tasted freedom’s lie;called devil by my jailers,I learned which side was sky.
I am both cage and key,the tide and those who drown.Name me—story, land, and war—and watch the walls come down.
Who am I?