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 to bleed and bleed

You are white, Albert black, not by choice, albeit by birth, by His sublime wish
The Good Shepherd whose passion transcends our mean creeds
For he crafts all souls, their motley forms and colors, not to distinguish
But to embellish his garden with splendid mélange, nurtured by benign heeds”

As shadows lengthen, sun dies down, her thigh now numb and heart overwhelmed
As they amble across the field to home, Annie sighs and says, “Remember my cherished boys,
Never ever be held hostage to your color, by fortitude only, your life shall be helmed,
As times test your prudence, follow the voice of your uncolored soul and never the mob’s noise.”