"The Fallen Native" - 24 November 2008 (a poem by Nilakrisna James)
Tempted by the shores of sunny weather
I left the white man's land
To return to the legacy of ancestors.
My heart torn by the reality of cultures
So alien to what I have known;
Yet thrown
Into a deeper wilderness
Than the vast blue sea that watched my departure.
An ocean of faces that mirror my own;
Indifferent to the monotony of shades of brown.
The bitterness of cappuccino conversations
In worn out shacks,
In designer slacks;
Oh, they are angry!
Forty Five years of hunger
And they wonder
Where did all the years go
As their white hairs grow?
Nothing much has changed except the grey concrete
Sweeping across green and their former bare feet.
Yearning for white man's land
And the days of pure, polished sand;
When we understood only the simplicity
Of respect
And the economics of equality
Without having to read between the lines
And let go of our wines;
When we were monarchs of our own destiny
And conquerors of our own fate.
For the land was ours
And we never watched the darkening hours;
For time stood still
And never could it have been envisaged
That we would allow ourselves to be savaged;
Intellectually ravaged.
They knew nothing in a room of five.
Silent as if not alive.
The chattering powers grew louder
And the weaker left to shudder;
Put pen to paper!
Droplets of red spilling later.
Sealed and delivered
In a honeycombed hive
With killer bees
While we dropped on our knees.
"The Fallen Native", a poem by Nilakrisna James
Written 24th September 2008
Copyright © Nilakrisna James 2008, all rights reserved
I left the white man's land
To return to the legacy of ancestors.
My heart torn by the reality of cultures
So alien to what I have known;
Yet thrown
Into a deeper wilderness
Than the vast blue sea that watched my departure.
An ocean of faces that mirror my own;
Indifferent to the monotony of shades of brown.
The bitterness of cappuccino conversations
In worn out shacks,
In designer slacks;
Oh, they are angry!
Forty Five years of hunger
And they wonder
Where did all the years go
As their white hairs grow?
Nothing much has changed except the grey concrete
Sweeping across green and their former bare feet.
Yearning for white man's land
And the days of pure, polished sand;
When we understood only the simplicity
Of respect
And the economics of equality
Without having to read between the lines
And let go of our wines;
When we were monarchs of our own destiny
And conquerors of our own fate.
For the land was ours
And we never watched the darkening hours;
For time stood still
And never could it have been envisaged
That we would allow ourselves to be savaged;
Intellectually ravaged.
They knew nothing in a room of five.
Silent as if not alive.
The chattering powers grew louder
And the weaker left to shudder;
Put pen to paper!
Droplets of red spilling later.
Sealed and delivered
In a honeycombed hive
With killer bees
While we dropped on our knees.
"The Fallen Native", a poem by Nilakrisna James
Written 24th September 2008
Copyright © Nilakrisna James 2008, all rights reserved
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