To kill a black man


vikas chandra

Sitting by the old guava tree, Annie the nanny with two boys
Peter, eleven, her master’s son, Albert, twelve, apple of her eye
Two angels, unlike hues, sharing bounty in the shade of poise
Her fist full of molten candies, heads resting on a placid thigh

Peter asked “How big was that mob nanny, where Uncle John was lost?”
Annie choked up, recollected herself and rejoined, “A horde of fanatics!
Does size matter? Passion to purge does, as it carouses a staggering holocaust
Game to inborn supremacism, an insane absurdity, he lost it to those lunatics

To kill a black man, is a weakling’s deed, overawed by his inner dread
A bid to avow by a pompous imbecile, his breed is the chosen one to lead
Is rekindling a savage colonial legacy that a race duly forgot to shred
Is crucifying his own soul with passion amiss, forsaken at altar…

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