I close my eyes and try to picture
Some rugged ground with tents
And tribal chants and beautiful long,
A man with braids and tan skin preparing
Supper for his family,
Over a fire he built-
And he sees a Brit heading his way
They need a place to stay-
Time goes by and by and-
By, his family is dead.
He smells the blood of his
Wife on a tree that now belongs to
The white man.
Everything belongs to the goddamn white
And now I try to imagine his uncle
Coming up with a plan,
To ban the Brits,
Even the ones who would've joined him
On the compound,
Even the women who cooked with his daughters,
He won't stand it.
This is not the white man's land.
He will take it back.
And he bans them,
And the rest,
The rest never comes.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
© 2019 Silvia Iorio. All rights reserved.