Unentitled

We live here and now Everything before And in other places Is past, Mostly forgotten. The first casualty of independence Is freedom. Our rights are hatred. Grief. The old Lie: planted in this country Like a flag. Empty promises of prosperity Numb us to truth. It pleases us To stand in silence, Staring at the blind sun. Wordless. Freedom Is narrowed down To a long sigh Of wrongdoing and rightdoing, Of the heart yearning in secrecy. Solitude. We discovered Freedom is merely an eclipsed moon, A speck of light, That appears in the face of the dark sky And then is seen no more. It is a tale Told by an African slave, Full of hope and bitterness, Deluded by dreams. Unentitled.