poem III

I am

When I was a child, mom used to say
That I was as stunning as the day.
She never told me anything less,
then I met them from the west.

Ignorance was so over-free.
Nobody bordered on what was ill.
Was it a crime to be beautifully black?
I needed an answer but met refusal.

I prayed all day and more on Sunday.
Dreamed that an angel made my day,
that I was universally loved with certainty;
that his parents did not mind.
Awake! But,why do people despise me?

Looking deep down into his black eyes,
His force sprung from his masculinity.
He was Achilles.
Only,his heel was his skin.
He had to fight for freedom and esteem.

My beloved, the creator is in your image.
The soul is where the difference is staged.
Because of who I am, I make an ally,
And a bunch of potential enemies.

Thus,with pleasure I am black!
They could ask for redemption,
As I owe them nothing.
Believe me-My soul is as soft as a symphony.

©comfortomorodion 2007