I am rain drops on old ships set sail.
The sweat off a brow of very dark skin
is a lonely comfort for one so frail.
The pale hand with whip is also my kin.
A family tree of those who take and give
leaves me stuck between, like a seed in wind.
Far from any land of my own I live,
left to find myself within my own mind.
Speaking the language of thieves with fair skin
I share the pride of Africa’s brown skin.
I’ve both oppressor and oppressed within,
an abomination that is neither.
Race-less without any identity
I’ll be defined by my humanity.
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