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Poem

Once you were a plundered people,
your ancient culture an excuse
for vainglorious swords to take by force
Yellow gold, Aztec Blue,
that rightfully belonged to you.
Your faces are now sometimes light,
sometimes sombre-
sombre as those hidden tombs
within which glittered eternal wealth,
and memories of doom.

Yes, your skin has the colour of life
as willingly fertile
as cultivated fields,
from which grew golden corn
nurtured, strong,
to be reaped by rights, not wrongs.

And so, they plundered what they could, 
but not your hearts, or inner worth.
For here in your lives
are more treasures revealed,
forcibly stolen by strangers' eyes....
Rich thoughts unsold, unbought.

Here is the Blue of the sky,
eternal, untouched.
Here is the colour Blood Red, 
precious lives, sacrificed.
Here is bright Yellow of corn, of Inca Gold.
Here is the Green of tiered fields,
yielding life from long ago.
Here is Black of night, protected sleep.
Here is White of eyes, of clouds and cloth.
Here is Pink of sunrise, babies' tongues.
And here is Purple, but where from?
Perhaps it is the colour of Anger, and Passion?
Or the colour of rain clouds,
glazed by the rays of Crimson sun?
Perhaps it is the colour 
of victorious hearts-
Rich Red, Royal Blue,
that are now one, have won?

Today, you plunder people's thoughts,
with a heart- held wealth
that can't be bought....

And I must sit here, wistfully
begging for alms from history...


Posted 2017.

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