Shacles In the Angles

SHACKLES IN THE ANGLES By Immaculata Ortner Woe at thou faint hearted blacks Thou at neither black or white Wishing our black could blend with white Which spot like dirt in our prudent race As our black blood, bled, blue To Water their loamy fields of flowers We clustered in the sun! And toddled in chains! While wild whip map our black and bull-like temples I must say no to the will of these pale faced wolfs To free the seeds in my loins Than dance to the tune of trailing chains And shackles in my angles And watch my heirs in pen