Interracial Marriage
I have watched with sorrow,
the tragedy of love turned into a hierarchy of colour.
When a black soul marries white,
it is called progress —
but only by those who still see whiteness as divine.
You, black child,
have been taught to hate your reflection,
to see validation only through pale eyes.
When you love yourself, they call it arrogance.
When you seek their love, they call it ambition.
Such is the madness of a divided world.
On the dating screens of modern Rome,
black faces are swiped away like dust,
while white faces glow with borrowed grace.
Even among your own,
the lighter skin calls itself superior —
a mimicry of old masters and new slaves.
This poison was crafted by hands
that divided God’s image by shade and geography.
They crowned ignorance as civilization.
But love was never meant to serve the market of complexion.
Black blood carries the seed of endurance,
the rhythm that sustains the Earth’s breath.
One day, when the African looks in the mirror
and sees not pain but power,
the world will kneel again — not in worship,
but in respect.
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