You don’t need a pair of fatigues
or to get shipped out to foreign lands.
Your battlefield is your very own body;
before and after, they cuff your hands.
They blind you with canisters of tear gas,
turning your tear-filled eyes, a fiery red.
For you cannot protest over one of your own,
just trudge through the cemetery to bury your dead.
There is no dignity on a coroner’s slab,
as they dig the bullets out, one by one.
Organs in a jar, weighed and tallied,
while a jury says, “No harm was done!”
Your mother and your sister shed crocodile tears.
And look to politicians to hear their pleas,
not understanding that this was all planned.
But the shame of slavery, your death will not ease.
The blood of the dead; slaves one and all,
cry out for vengeance as they walk with you.
Your ancestor’s features are carved on your face,
and the ‘white’ man and his fate will rendezvous.
There will be no mercy for the cruel and the heartless.
And when the chains enslave him, the whips lash his back,
as he displayed no mercy for his hapless captives,
slaves freed by death will rise up and attack.
Though he may beg for mercy, calling to his ‘god’,
the day of reckoning has come at last
and he shall be made to pay for the blood he spilled;
both in present day and for days long passed.
Shelby I. Courtland
©2016 Shelby I. Courtland
What I have written here, is my most heartfelt wish and hope!