Voiceless

Mother taught me to not kill, Her holy book forbids it. Written somewhere in its many pages is "Killing is the wickedest biblical sin." My mind holds me prisoner, A self-judged convict- For I have murdered men, Buried them in the catacombs of hatred. I have read about Faith. How it opened shut-up doors of the eyes of men. Tell me I am wrong for mixing clay and spittle spiced with spite, That in my eyes have fallen the worthiest of men, Even the most virtuous women have been undressed. Father told me "silence is virtue, Quietude is key." What I carry- the words I bear Is a river rushing to empty itself into the ocean. Tell me I am wrong For choosing to live expressive. "The silent man is like one dead with his mouth open, A lot to say, nothing said." How sad! They say our color defines silence, We are blessed with the curse. From time immemorial we have carried the course over with every soul we laid to rest. With fettered legs from Badagry we have mourned silently to Cane farms in Brazil, Bound men in Freetown, We harbour promises of a free world when we have not even a free town. Caretakers of our own lands. From Egyptian slavery we walk into the captivity of the Promised Land powerful but powerless like bottled genies. Tell me I am wrong for Refusing to bargain my voice Or trade my lips for another tongue. Father told me that War is a word we must never say, Our fathers before him buried it deep under lashes, Sang it away in sugar cane farms. He said " Silence is peace, we must carry on the tradition." The head must lay itself for the tail Like wine must be downed 'fore the dreg But freedom is a language, voice is a tongue. We have waited so long with poise in the eerie dungeons of quietude for noise ...... ...... ....... ........