CRIMSON VEIL

A fractured mirror reflects A distorted image we inherit, Echoes of old poison In new, sharp whispers. They say the dark skin is less, A lesser canvas painted by time, They claim the ancient earth, Where kingdoms rose and fell, Holds no story worth the telling. We hear the casual slur, The childish, cruel toss, A yellow fruit against the green, A symbol meant to wound, To strip away the striving spirit. Monochrome minds try to box us in, To paint a single, flat shade, Ignoring the spectrum of our strength. Africa, a continent unbound, Yearns for the weaving thread, To mend the tears, to stand whole. No longer leaning, Not bowing low to shores afar. But look closer, at the thrones we built, The betrayal stings closer to home, My Nigeria, a vibrant garden choked, By hands meant to nurture growth. Leaders who hoard the sun, Leaving shadows where progress sleeps. When the knife cuts deep, Or when laughter rings true, The crimson flows the same hue. Every pulse a shared rhythm, Every breath drawn from the same air. It is time the pretense shatters, To see the human beneath the label, To recognize the shared, single heart That beats the rhythm of our common worth.