Voice died
“It is my home.”
Voice echoed, found no home, no runway
To land on.
“Imposed guests, you are fighting; my home is in burning.”
Voice thundered as do gales and storms.
“You murdered my mother.”
Colourful in sky, a rainbow
Like before, open armed, hugged the sun
Voice lingered and tears, rain’s remains in cloud.
“You break culture of…”
Exhausted, the voice died
It was an Indian’s.
In Charleston burn churches
Still fight old masters and slaves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A revolutionary poem penned by a revolutionary poet! Thank you Nassy for sharing. Tushar