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AT THE FRONTIERS OF THE APOCALYPSE
I spit on the sermons of slaver prophets.
Their prayers fed the whips that tore my ancestors’ flesh.
They built cathedrals with the blood of captives,
And sanctified pain in the name of a carnivorous God.
I am the heir of the tormented of Gorée,
The cursed child of plantations watered with tears.
I have not forgotten the slave ships,
Nor the papal blessings that celebrated chained flesh.
They call me barbarian because I refuse their pardon,
Yet their libraries reek of the lies of civilization.
I have no need for their counterfeit paradise,
Their heavens are slave markets painted blue.
I stand upright like the brave rebels of Haiti,
Torn from the entrails of the earth by the wrath of volcanoes.
I speak with the broken jaws of my forefathers,
And I write with the black ink of smothered genocides.
Their flags are cloths stained with blood,
Their laws, chains polished by diplomacy.
They claim to distribute freedom,
But their satanic philanthropy cultivates misery as an eternal rent.
I have no god to crown my wounds.
My faith is the scar tattooed on my forehead.
I have no temple to prostitute my soul,
My truth feeds on the rage of the damned.
Let them keep calling me a wicked *****,
I will turn that insult into a scepter.
I have no need for their recognition,
For my dignity is not for sale.
I live in this world fractured by their bombs,
Yet my conscience remains undefeated.
A people does not die when it chooses to remember,
And my memory is a weapon loaded blank against their idols.
Copyright ©
Auguste Romain Nyecki
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