Who, then, are the free-versed
And cannot stop for race?
A muttered slight without remorse
Plagues a nation in disgrace.
If only lines could scrawl
And fingers did their turn.
Maybe then the problems all
Would cease- would stop their churn.
Color-blind to a page of white,
No thinkers to end their plight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem