WHO'S RACIST?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
WHY DO WE GET TO BEAR THE PAIN OF THE WORLDS HATE? What have we done to be so treated?Are all in the western world too raceist to end this pain?

Submitted: April 04, 2007

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Submitted: April 04, 2007

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They came, hordes of them
Pale skins hugged the coastline
Darker ones swam the desert
Each professing hope’s light
They lied, killed without qualm
On our ignominy they fed full
A bit of mirror, broken, for
The very best of our kin
Our innocence from us was stolen
Pale-faced crucifies was our reward
Hold tight unto says he, while behind
He stole us blind
Now we kill, not ones but thousands
Like they, our teachers, taught
The darker ones said, do it happily,
For the new prophet, yes…
Towards their gods we cleaved
To sell our souls, we killed our own.
To flounder indeed, like godless men
Seeking fate in another’s palm
Did they not get rich off us?
Toiling through benighted day
Our supple youth died upon leafy Plantations
Beyond the great sea
Our gold sits comfy on HRM’s grey hair
Our zinc roofs greater Britain
Other ore pushed that industrial revolution
World history seem so proud of
They say our light came off them
I say they are our deaths source
Do we not kill yet for their prophet?
And bow before pale eyes’ feet?
We could have, giving blessed time
Found our own path to bluer skies
As their ancestors did back when
Their world was darker than black
But no!
The world must have a villain
Who’s’ house must remain dim
Who’s’ children must not climb
The skies that Clark spoke of
Haa!
Where lays great Songai? A lion
That devoured adolescent sheikhdoms
Where sleeps mighty Ashanti? A leopard
That snapped upstart princedoms
Hot lead flied, brave warriors fell
Staring not assailants eyeball to eyeball
A nation trampled underfoot
By faceless preachers of a new faith
In democratic craze,
Our great kings were exiled
Finding democratic practice
Among Biafra bight’s Igbo’s
Astounded but repulsed they imposed
Paramount chiefs to hold them down
For that child of man modern
Cannot be allowed existence here
Great arts they found in heartfelt abundance
No! Said they, a Roman or an Arab it must be
That showed how to mix clay for terracotta
To melt alloys for metal works
Our history lays enchained to dusty shelves
Across museums in the white west
Stolen, I tell you, like our pride
Never to be replaced
Would they ever stop?
No, not when IMF lives within
Making sure our skies remain
Coaly black
s


© Copyright 2018 the Lame One. All rights reserved.

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