Flamingos
We begin as Property,
Trophies of lustful white men,
The spawn of Production and the product of Greed.
We are born within the Violations of Humanity,
Tucked away in cages awaiting our master's Infidelity.
At night, Anger is our Warmth.
By day, God our wintry soldier.
Hymns whistle past the thickets that tear through our Whites and pick our Bones,
While fists clench around the roots of Capitalism,
Cotton smushed within dirty palms.
Under the lashes of sunlight we stride with crooked neck and cautious leg,
Craning for white man's treasure,
All the while displaying our red-striped backs,
Our patriotic flock.
Now,
Long days come to an end,
And the tyrannous White Man demands our liberation,
But my loving master liberates only my blood.
My bleeding back meshes with my Whites,
Pink is born.
And when I fly away in the night from what had immobilized me,
A child's fate is decided.
For life, my baby is sentenced
An ever most rewarding Death.
With love,
My dear Beloved.
