The Dark Melanin

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.