THE COLOR OF SKIN

From the blackness out of coal, I came

Out of the bluish of the sea, I am

From the whiteness of the clouds

The yellowish out of the gold and the leaves

From the green of the woods I am

I am a bird which spreads his wings to the wind

In flight of freedom

Floating on the agonizing incertitude that deep dwells

In the soul of the man I am

Blood spouted in the holds of the slave ships

From Africa to South America, Brazil

On the crack hissing of the whip, a scream

A voice of freedom resounded so far

In the midst of valleys and mountains into a sob of sorrow

This daring voice thunders in sounds as she ransacks memories

From the soul of her inglorious history gone

That in the sweat of her body

Used to drink bloodstained-water

By the guilty of her unique sin – the color of her skin.

And nowadays she still lives in her homeland, worthless and by the nooks

But she never deprived from dreaming of freedom

Even in a gloomy wail

Watching in her clod the youth free to speak up their mind, some day

And the children of the gentle motherland

Having their daily sacred bread portion,

Sipping lore in the bowl of wisdom, smiling confident in mother justice

Because only mindful people are able to make history.

Author: Kaewan