The Black Child
By Wenne Madyt Dengs (A poet and Jounalist)
You’re thrown into inexpressible situation
Your names are nothing but a curse
You’re the unluckiest child of all races
With deep distress mend destitute
You’re born with bow in your hand
Your body is infested with live maladies
You’re resistant to modern drugs
You are either a male or female human;
Who is wild-blooded
You feed on wild food;
At your childish stage
You’re neither a monkey nor man
You genre must be generally doomed
Whitish slogan is resources
That you inherit from your forefathers
Those races without origin
Those races without ancestry belongings
Wanted to debut your race
Blessed with lame tongue
That can’t vibrate for breathing reality
The tongue that vibrates for self interest
To eat and ease is what your mental cares
Leaving the pressing neighboring colonization
That gives you hatred between yourself
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