where I stand, blood stains
the sunburnt soil,
mute witness to the cry
of the oppressed, repressed,
dispossessed.
close your eyes, stand still
and tune in
to the requiem of the wind
echoing, continuing
unresolved conflict
and unpaid debt.
'empathy key' you shoved
in my hands---
is that what I need to perceive
why the phantoms
of a 'vanquished' race make
their apparitions in conferences,
stage walkouts to pierce
our multicultural conscience
with their omnipresence?
pray, let us not slay them once more
with our sword of words
to nullify the anger
singeing their souls.
true, history we cannot reconstruct
but must we repeatedly rape
their right for a name
with our 'multicultural' fortress
to blot out the remnants of our sins?
'mirror their needs' indeed
but through the looking glass
of repressed history.
close your eyes, stand still
and tune in
to the requiem of the wind,
the woes of a people fearing
a fresh invasion
on an alternative front.
a mute point:
coarse words spat out,
go home, slanty eyed!
i see myriads of flags fly
upon the sky,
their pieces ripped apart
by stormy winds,
their colours merging, stating
that difference is shrinking.
tell this to the new tribes
beating their drums in monotone
and screaming,
to the mainstream return!
as Gaia trembled in shock,
the land retrieved them all,
old and new,
black, brown, yellow and white,
and Howard's 'mainstream' too!
vomit spewed out from the psyche
of the dead heart,
resurrecting repressed tales---
children from mothers snatched,
today's disoriented dreams.
spilt blood mysteriously rose
from ancient campfires' smoke,
ghosts hovered over poisoned waterholes,
into ugly craters sacred sites transformed,
mining acquisitive, greedy hearts,
crows warning of an unabating
curse upon white seafarers'
children of old who remain
lost to the land.
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