“Won’t you buy me Sir, for a pinch of salt?
‘So be it’ my being, your blessed burden
Why we blacks deify, and you whites exalt
Rat race of races, under the same old sun”

“When tears equator, my Africa and hallows it with heat
And bakes my skin, so black indeed
And my land, can’t make ends meet
What’s left for dark souls, but to cede?”

“Still strong is the stench, of slavery’s sweat
Alas! How it spilled o’er, many a sea
To the lands of white, their free asset
Why I a prisoner, of my past’s decree?”

“Could more be withered, a land betrayed
Like a vanquished widow, of a thousand years
Sun showers no pity, on a soul which prayed
With splintered hands, and blistered tears”

© 2016 Vikas Chandra