The Black Child's Dream

The black child curiously asks
Why the blacklist on the phone and not whitelist
Why is black painted gloom
And white depicting happiness
Even the gloomy moments and funerals
Saw us wearing black
And the happy days,
Beautifully cladded in white

Why can't black lives matter
Yet white lives flatter
Why can't they weave freedom dreams for Africa
Yet keep forging through the wrong of Empire
Why can't I live
As Providence would have it
But overidden by strains of my race
Fed with Sharp tasting delicacies
From someone else's junkyard
Defined on a platter of injustice

We planted the trees
The lumberman comes and fells them
They came, wearing angelic faces
Milked our lands dry
Like the epitaph of a legend
That can never be effaced
So are the touching stories
Told by the fireside; of a mother, father
Held as objects; sold as property
Stories of my ancestors
Captured in webs of a foreign spider
Yet they stood in trembling ecstacy

Would my dreams for a cure
End up in a ghost town?
Would Martin Luther King's dream ever materialise?
Would the toil of the freedom fighters
Be mocked in vanity?
Water my dreams, Oh Lord!
So I can wipe it off
The dismal cry ringing sadly in our ears
Just as the black light radiates over the years
In claspers of soft whispers; sound the Clarion call
For all lives matter!