The little star
I am a little star that cannot brighten this black paradise.
A land so rich with the flesh and bones of my parents and ancestors.
A kingdom of the black wolves, cleared by the white alphas.
In this land of peace, where every dream follows screams, history rewrites.
The silence of spears, knives, and others is replaced by the whisk of bullets that run from door to door.
Schools still give out permanent holidays after graduating immature warriors.
Offices continue to have empty top tables, with many wardrobes under them keeping bones for every dog that barks.
Dung on the streets points at us whenever our eyes meet, while the wind piles rubbish at our doorsteps.
The white eagle flies to and fro, grabbing anything in sight—from our relatives’ bones to stones and everything.
Education is now key, but the key holder has become the clink and rasp of money.
The hospital is stained with blood and filled with flies that help the doctors with the rotten smell, yet each time banks release papers.
All churches and mosques preach, but it is the pews and floors that hear the puff of riches, not the ears that hear the preaching, while loud sounds tell us how the devil is black and the angels are white.
I have seen global equality, where white dresses are used for celebrations while black is used for burials—equality where all blacks bleach themselves to become white.
I am a star from a little culture once raised, now fading back to what our ancestors once warned.
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