White, Black.
Brown, Yellow.
There is constant attack.
White does not make me mellow.
There should be no colour.
Why not just be blue.
We are all from one great Mother.
Is that not a clue?
I am a poet first,
A “caucasian” last.
The words quench my thirst.
The colours are the past.
(4/23/2008)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem