Poem #11

Spotlights are making me feverish.

The warm sweat flows in my mouth,

The caustic salt creaks my lips.

My throat – my ghastly skin is flaming.

Colored companions are plucking my strings.

Corrosive notes under keys,

At a highly spiced cadence.

Furious vengeance against the torturer.

One band, one fight, one voice.

– One shooting

Icy, white and iodized skin.

A black body on the scene.

– No more voice.

Poem #12

The White World

At the top, below, to the left, to the right,

In front of me and behind me, all is white,

Everywhere and always, from dawn to midnight,

It's white...

When I woke up: no more fights,

I was ready to receive my rights!

I heard promises of freedom, promises to my heart,

But actually, they just rang in my head.

Now I run during the day, during the night,

Against the sand, against the wind,

From morning until twilight!

Because there's a monster behind!

A terrifying monster with a white hood!

What does he want? Nothing good...

He's thirsty? Maybe he wants to drink my blood?

It's a white world, it's a blinding world,

Without life and word!

What's my horizon?

Just death and prison...

Now I'm suffocating, noiselessly,

I'm much too tired to flee.

I smell the odor of death: I'm over.

My rights will come, but later...

Poem #13

Flames appear,

Some men

With a hood look at them;

They light up the night,

and bring heat.

Carried by the wind,

They rise up towards the sky, veiled:

A warm light

Lost in the darkness.

Somber souls

Clearly dressed

Have given their penalty.

What burns have become common,

A bitter smell known of all.

It's the fate

of the rebel Negroes.

Poem #15 - All these eyes on me (click to enlarge)

Poem #16 - Segregation in the US (click to enlarge)

Poem #18 -

Vile acts,

With the devil you made a pact.

In white you are dressed,

Black when we are naked.

We have all the same red blood,

Treated as dogs,

Beaten, hounded down and burned,

Your hatred on us is unchained,

Hatred in this State is the key,

It is what you were taught by the KKK.

During your necktie parties,

You represented white supremacy;

The smell of our bodies in decomposition

Did not make you change your position.

May God feel sorry for your souls!

Listen to the blues of the black people.

The sky is crying blood

And their hearts are torn into thousand pieces

A black body is ill, then whites don't

Know that they are killing him?

Owing to this segregation, sadness

Is filling blacks' habitations.

Why is this world divided?

There isn't difference between individuals

So why are people racist?

It's time to draw up the balance sheet,

and to erase the rotten bloom,

Red color. Stop to loom,

fruit of trees, it is so sweet.

And let them drag corroded fruit in trees.

It's only one solution and keys

Of luck to treat our world.

Racism today remains one fundamental

Feature of advanced societies. In these

Societies, there are half devils and half children.

Black people used to be discriminated against.

Stop it...

Forget it...

Poem #2:

A failed claim for freedom

In cotton fields are slaves,

Black wrecked lost in a white sea.

The poor are making the rich's wealth

In gathering softness under the burning sun,

In suffering freely with the smell of sweat.

Then a single voice tries to relieve their pain,

Supported by the others crying their suffering.

But the screams bring a deafening silence,

Interrupted by the cracks of whipping,

Drawing red lines on the black backs,

Killing the burgeoning hope for freedom

With the painful taste of blood.

On a limb of a tree
Was hanging something
Like a strange piñata
Like a dark cicada.

A little kid was playing.
He didn't hear the violent wind,
Didn't remark the smell of burning
Of the black and bloody skin.

He just caught and burst,
Just touched and cut,
To find what type of surprise
Were hiding these bulging eyes.

Suddenly, with the stick in his hand,
His white and spotless face
Became queerly warm and red.
In his mouth, a sickening taste.

A mother who was crying,
A father and his hatred,
Now you know the real gain
Of this strange and bloody game.

Poem #4:

Good Morning in the golden fields.

The warm breeze blows on ears of wheat

Which are playing with my hands.

In the warbling of the birds,

I can smell the fragrance of the recent crop,

And feel a few rain drops.

There's a lone poplar tree in front of me.

Warm blood at the roots

Whereas mine's freezing.

The atrocious smell and sound of the worms in the rotten corpses

Are sickening but I can't feel anything anymore.

In a deadly hush in the pouring rain

My mind is empty.

Pop... Mom... are the only two words I know now.

Why can't I have a shield to protect ourselves?

Why can't I have a sword to take revenge?

Why am I so weak?

Good morning in the golden fields.

I'm walking in a little and silent street.

The white moon is shining in the black sky.

A sudden cry is making me shiver,

On my right, three bodies moving.

Dark in lights

Whites on black

A drop of blood is falling in the ground.

Punch with their fists

Kick in the legs

A hard mass is crashing in the soft mud.

A silver knife is driving in the sweet flesh,

A cold breeze is shedding warm blood.

Unbearable smell and dreadful laughter,

A black man's beaten to death in the alley.