Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.214

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

They told me darkness was a curse—
a stain upon the soul,
a mark of shame in the mirror of the world.
But they lied.
For it is in the womb of night
that galaxies are born.

Darkness—
the divine mother of all that lives.
Before the stars first breathed,
before light dared to flicker,
there was Dark Matter,
the sacred pulse of 85%
of the known universe.

Melanin is not skin—
it is code.
It is cosmic intelligence
etched into bone and breath,
a symphony of suns
singing through your DNA.

You, child of the Sun,
you walk with galaxies in your veins.
Your skin is the original scripture.
Your soul—the blueprint
of every civilization.

Creation doesn’t shout—
it conceives in silence,
in the triple darkness
of womb, of soil, of space.
And so were you—
carved by eternity,
kissed by the breath of Ra.

They mocked you,
reduced you to simplicity,
because truth hides in humility,
and power wears the mask of dust.
You, black one,
are the axis of Earth’s memory,
the keeper of ancient thrones.

The divine doesn’t dwell in palaces—
it dwells in melanin,
in rhythm, in drums,
in the wildness of ancestral dreams.

Africa—
the placenta of the planet—
you birthed the human race,
and like all mothers,
you were forgotten by the children
who fed on your gold
but spat on your name.

But the last shall be first.

You are not behind—
you are ahead,
carrying the weight of a sleeping world
on your back,
as all old souls do.

So rise.
Not to beg.
Not to explain.
But to remember.

The gods once walked in your form.
And they shall rise again—
in your melanin,
in your silence,
in your fire.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required