On a stage,
wrapped in Old, glory,
to a crowd as white as driven snow.
Those, who claim the reflection of supreme perfection,
the color without hue.
With hope in hand, they listen,
and like a hollow wind through vacant canyon,
their politicians bellow: “We will protect and preserve what is rightfully ours!”
And the crowds cheer.
The only contrast in the jungle of chalk, is a singularity, a fly in milk that taints the snow.
And in those numbers, they will stay.
The rest, from afar,
hear the loud thunder of the Aryan-men.
who are wrapped in a promise
to re-claim from its shores, the America of old.
of WHITE, red, and blue.
With no regard for the yellow, black, and brown.
The back of the bus crowd.
Those, who labor in her shops,
shelter in her shacks,
sleep in her streets.
They claim her too!
But they are drained of tears—if any remained,
They’d share, with the complxionless, callous politician,
tyrannical men who lack contrition,
They’d lend them their pain,
hoping to sway the pale face
that leads the race
to strip them of their rights,
and line their prisons with their young,
so they may sit peacefully, in the serenity,
of White pews, singing the hymns of white gods.
Secure in their station, full of erudition,
they hammer-out fates
in hallowed halls of justice,
wearing hearts that match the marble of the pillars,
and are as hollow as its chambers.
New, Jim Crows,
with old familiar legislation,
their vision obscured by hate.
Colored faces are invisible to their sight.
The abandoned children of the nation, those fathered by many,
who by an embarrassed mother,
are swaddled tightly in blankets of red, white, and blue,
to hide their yellow, black, and brown.
They, the people who make the Red of the White, blue and uneasy.
They, who plead to thee, O sweet land of liberty
to let thy crown of brotherhood be good,
for under one nation we are all blanketed.
They pledge allegiance to you!
They labor for you!
And they die for you.
In many wars, they shared their blood with thee, O sweet land of liberty!
And they know—you will call on them again,
to raise the banner, and pour-out the contents of their veins.
Is it only then, that they are son or daughter?
O America, the land that they love, it’s their home too,
for they are brave as well!
They will not wallow in pity long.
for they are a great crowd who hunger and long to be of thee from sea to shining sea,
to sing a kind refrain, but they are in pain, and wonder:
For who, is the land that they love?
For who, is the protective banner
whose broad stripes and bright stars
thru the perilous fight, won the right,
to place on its shore, a welcome mat at its door,
for the tired and the poor,
for the huddled masses who yearn to breathe free,
the wretched refuse of teeming shores,
the America who said: Send these—
the homeless tempest-tost to me.
For who did you lift a lamp beside the golden door?
Who is the beacon for?