Zong Massacre
It was 29 November 1781.
A black day.
A silent grave.
One hundred thirty of us.
Thrown into the sea.
Our voices rose.
Our souls cried.
Innocence sinking
into Europe’s darkness.
O Britain,
what crime did we commit?
What sin deserved this?
What heart kills the helpless?
You pretend to forget.
But the sea remembers.
The skies remember.
The Earth remembers.
Justice never sleeps.
Europe speaks of morality.
But to the gods of Justice,
your words are an insult.
Your sins are heavy.
Too heavy for time to carry.
Justice is slow.
But the slower it walks,
the harsher it strikes.
Punishment grows
in the silence of centuries.
Your guilt will haunt you.
It will run in your bloodline.
It will whisper in your dreams.
It will follow you
like a faithful shadow.
What did we do, Europe?
What threat were we?
We were chained.
We were starving.
We were human.
Yet you killed us
worse than beasts.
No spirituality lived in you.
For no soul touched by God
could drown another.
You ruled the world
with an iron fist.
Millions died in your name.
Now your age fades.
Your crown rusts.
Will karma forgive you?
How can it?
You planted evil.
You will reap storms.
The oceans will rise.
The winds will laugh.
The sky will mock your pride.
Your end approaches.
Your pain will be severe.
We remember.
The universe remembers.
And memory
is the beginning of judgment.
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