The Narrow Path of Xenophobia

The dying day lies beautiful in the tender glow of the evening, Her skin is black and glows with angelic beauty, But a glacial pang of pain like the stab of a dagger of ice frozen from a poisoned well leaves her gasping for air, She has been raped, abused, molested, and dwarfed to a symbol of worthlessness. God made man in his image, But He didn't say Black or White. Threading on a narrow path of xenophobia and collapsing in the throes of agony, She closed her eyes to die, but the cold hands of death couldn't take her away, Terror filled the more remote chambers of her brain with riot. As a victim of a haunting and horrible sense of insecurity, And a daily avalanche of vituperation, discrimination and intimidation, Her hurrying thoughts clamored for utterance but ran into tears like sunshine into rain, Since in a sky stained with blood, a great moon couldn't rise, Then, anxiety hung like a dark impenetrable cloud. As arbitrary as a cyclone and as killing as a pestilence, The awful and implacable approach of doom was visible, Just as ruthlessly as the hoof of a horse tramples on a rose, The sadists in their cruelty squeezed her life to dry as a desert dust, And she wondered, Why she was trying to live in a foreign land if she was just living to die.