My First Crime

At the crack of dawn on a street blanketed with snow, The shotgun pellets crater my chest, back and thighs, Thickly the hot metals drove in, each like a harum-scarum driver, Sputtering my flesh and blood on the ground. Groaning in pains, thoughts vague as the fitful breeze, I became weak and frail like the vapor of a vale, Wrangling over the details of my crime like a grasping pawnbroker, My limpidity and sensibilities darkened, Like a puerile illusion. My mouth agape, clamouring for utterances but failed, Suddenly, the constable's bug-eyes glazed bewildered, Then his slits of lips snarled at my expiring fragments, “You motherless and African felon!” Tied to the bars, minutes crawled by like years and hours like eternity, The pains became unbearable and I wished to die When I felt the mortal coldness of my gloomy soul, like death itself, It was then the police officer said to me, "Having a black skin here is your crime".