White skin—but an illusion.
Black skin—but a confusion.
No man fashioned from clay is white,
Neither is any man black,
For clay is neither white nor black.
White is but a borrowed colour
That you wear upon your face,
To lift yourself above me,
Spreading your imperial ideology:
'I am a white creature,
Like the dove,
Near to God and His kingdom.
My ways are upright
And full of light.
Therefore, listen to me! '
'You are a black creature,
Like tar,
Near to Satan and his kingdom.
Your ways are crooked
And full of darkness.
Therefore, be silent! '
Black is but the colour
You force upon my face,
To bring me low,
To wound my mind,
And to imprison my spirit.
But I am certain—
Not uncertain:
No man fashioned from clay is white or black,
For clay is neither white nor black.
Before you named me,
I was clay.
Before you coloured me,
I was human.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem