Black Poem by Michael Ordia

When I say black colour
I speak of the first and purest in the world
A colour they call negative, evil and of death
Black art, black magic, black man.
When I say black continent
I speak of the home of the first man
A home called poor by the thieves who stole from it
I speak of the blood of the host spilled over nature
by uninvited guest with deceit in their tongues.
When I say black people
I speak of Kings and Queens from ancient times
People with art, culture and language
I speak of gods in the form of man
I speak of chains and bounds, torture and blood
I speak of unbroken souls and untamed spirits
I speak of clenched fist raised high it threatens the heavens.
When I say black
I speak of greatness and life
I speak of wonders you may not understand.