The Migrant’s Migraine

The Migrant’s Migraine

Sages
Sit on stages
Of stone,
Flipping pages
Of dazing words
And slashing open
Cages of ignorance
With blazing swords
Of truth,
Flashing
Amazing images
Called
To the mic stands
From days and ages
Out of the mind’s hand’s
Grip
Upon trips
Taken by mistakes pilgrims
To Holy Fallacies
And stolen palaces
Where swollen policies
Kept unshaken
The aching divide
Between
The skin of the white man
And the black man’s hide.
I cried
For the slave ship’s sail
And my mother’s wail;
I cried
For the shackles around my wrists and ankles
And for the collar around my neck
Tied;
I cried
For the sting of the snip
Of the slave master’s whip;
I sought
 But found no sleep;
I cried;
I did not weep.
I died
To the glory
Of my Fatherland
When I sold
My father’s land
To buy entrance
To the white man’s land
Even though he called me
A nigger
“Yam grows quicker and bigger
In the white man’s sand,”
I lied.
Or maybe
My words stand true
And the patriot sages
Have no clue
That
The grass, in deed, is greener
On the other side.


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