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.

 

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Tagged: Poetry