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by: Bakchos
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Not two years old, you started
Not for me, but spite;
A black man boxer, strong and proud
His spirit sought to break;
Not two years old your brutal curse
Tore heart from soul in two
’Tween man and son in broken land
Now tattered, frayed and strained.

By ten years old you took again
The tall man boxer, strong,
Armed him sleeping, falsely found
What proved his ‘guilt’ … no prints you found;
By ten years old the dye was cast
The only tie I knew
Now lost to world, now gone the love
That father shared with son.

Realisation, ten years old
To learn that we aren’t one,
Realisation of truth of world
Divided caste and hue;
Leave, I would, as soon I could
This two-faced liars’ land,
Leave, I did and found a home
Less worried by my blend.

But fate is cruel to some, it seems
And so I did return
A white man with a black man’s mark
Yet equal still, you said;
You gave me work, you saw me hired
The franchise sold was false,
For rude and narrow minds you backed
When breaking your own pacts!

Hypocrites, that’s what you are
For I had chosen trust,
Hypocrites, you hired me
Then failed to keep me free
Of shackles once more plainly seen
Round necks of darker men
Converted now to rhetoric
Of men not truly friends.

You brought this fight to me, you know
I only sought a life
Serving those with lesser chance
And building stronger ties;
You brought this fight to me and now
You’ll have to see it through,
I did not seek , but now you’ll find
Defiance of your lies.

by one of the Bacchai


  1. Wanderlust says:

    Painful, haunting. Beautifully written.

  2. Maxabella says:

    Bakchos, while I don’t feel qualified to express an opinion, I wanted to let you know that I have read every single one of your posts. Keep writing. The pen is mightier than the sword. x

  3. Jayne says:

    Love it, Bacchai, keep ’em comin’!

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