By Harsheni Maniarasan
the shade of the black alluvial soil spilled
through the cracks of my skin, clothing
my being in a colour within which
boldness reverberated like the beating of a
thousand drums that breathed life into the
stillness of a world gone cold — o’ how cold
this world has gone, drumming on disparities and
forsaking all traces of affinities, riding on the
blasphemy of tearing souls apart with veils of
hatred blinding their vision as they tighten
the nooses around the necks of people
that look like me, somehow we withered into
ill-fated strangers: too odd! they say,
too dirty! they yell, too loud! they complain
just LEAVE! they scream, just VANISH! they
push, just DIE! they e r a s e.
unfitting fragments better left
discarded our fate writes, only
cherished when gone our tale
laments — must our colour be drained
from earth to please those
with hearts sans compassion, etching
‘other’ onto our foreheads like we
are cursed to tremble and
hide in thraldom, undeserving of
freedom; o’ why does the world
hate us so? look, we contain
multitudes! hear us speak, let
us sing for enough is
enough — no longer shall
we whisper!
About the Author: Harsheni is a MA Creative Writing student at University of Bristol who possesses a huge affinity for literature and spends most of her time reading and penning poetry. She holds a particular interest in ghazals, haikus and exploring nature through imagery.