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