The Relics Poem by Germina Melius

I heard the black woman cry, I came out to see,
a black man strangled by the relics of slavery,
a horror haunting our minds.
The black woman is mourning for her son, her people reciprocate.
Why Lord?
Who was born in the garden of ignorance, watered by hate stones?
Our oppressors - the racist ones, convey their sentiment.
They have borrowed death's hands to inflict painful scars and fill graves.
Have you ever received an epidermal license, where a price is paid?
No, I have never completed the application form for a license of colour or pain.
Walking down streets of paranoia, we drink prayerful waters
in a glass of peace and longevity, hoping for a peaceful day.
If our coffee skins were transparent like water, freely roaming the earth, the cries of black people would cease.
I say no to the oppressors with brains of bones,
who trouble the conscience of black people like thorns, taking lives, denying jobs, our bellies hurting, breaking bones and self-esteem.
Mental stress in augmentation, our souls need rest.
Emancipation says we belong.
Help peace, equality and justice to thrive, wash the brains of ignorance, bind the arms of racism.

© 2020

(poem on the theme, Black Lives Matter)