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Don't you wonder, sometimes, why the clouds never grow old. 
And why we, like road signs, gaze at this miracle without giving notice to time and how long nature has been. 
I do not know if there are black men or colored virgins in the sky, but sometimes, i imagine how sincere it will be to have them, so high above our worldly eyes--sending us rain and ice from a saddened cloud. 

Today, it didn't rain. Well, it hasn't for three seasons.
It only gave a sign in December when my mother ran out of her shrine with white marks on her brown skull and lazy breast--praying, ramming her feet on the sod, till the old beads on her thin neck falls on loneliness. 

I wonder why I am still a black man; why my skin is yet, darker than the lies I have told. And why we naively gather around burning coals to watch the stars as they let out glistened sparks, so gently, that it resembles the touch of ice on a bruised lips.

There's nothing left to say, than to wait, till our fate becomes even with nature's wonder. I know this will never happen! 
But you have to try, my mother said. 
As she continues to hit her weary feet on the motionless fabric of earth, making sure her senses are planted like white grains in the sod. 
It doesn't really matter what she does; time will never grow old and die, nor the sky depart from the clouds. And man will never cease to dwell in oblivion.

If I narrate my written thoughts to you, and tell you the dreams I have seen when time wombed the sun to bring forth the moon, you will know that we are like rats in a maze. A maze so long, tiring and tragic; like the beginning of a new track as the first ends. 
Sometimes, I wonder if my needs will ever come to reality; not to be stolen by a dark-skinned being with a shadow-like tail, called jealousy.

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