It's another day, and I lie still with my eyes refusing to blink,
I look at the window and the old cretonne that sways to and fro close to it.
The glass is translucent, and I can barely see the outer view,
I'm not allowed to be out because I don't have no colour to be proud of,
I have only heard there's a big proud-breasted tree outside,
It's been there from ages, from the reign of The white lion.
I wonder if it stood tall all these years just for the welcoming of my soul at this lone place,
for the tree has witnessed the kinship between slavery and people of my breed,
my fingertips have skin flaking off,
they're bruised by the despise of this new country land,
with their interrogative blue it looks like they've been cooped up in feathers,
feathers of a black crow, not of dove.
When everyone grimaced my appearance,
I set my eyes swimming on the grey veiled sky like fishes in the ocean,
a liminal space the sky is for all the fallen leaves to fly, as they try to weave and enweave themselves,
an enormous playground it is for the dead and the heavenly bodies.
Masses of molten surfaces always sung songs of joy to me,
but as my eyes bathed with the strings of small white clouds sectioning the sky,
those songs turned into woeful dirges,
for I thought clouds had a white identity to be proud of, but the sky?
It wore dark. Clouds were adored, but the sky?
just as other dark breed, it was left in a kinship with slavery, being dominated by the nearby white identity.
Names are not needed for the blacks, black is their identity,
though the blood in the veins is red,
though the teeth are white and tongue pink,
though we are humans with a heart and emotions,
but black is our identity,
and being despised is in our stars.

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