It was always darker than a dungeon
and was still as dark as it could be.
Like lifeless ashes kept in an urn -
those chainless captives couldn't flee.
Some lived life, while thousands earned
and had more than their needs be.
Blinded in gaze, while others they shunned
but towers of pride wasn't for all eternity.
Rain doesn't fall and neither their tears;
their hearts don't beat, it's nothing new.
Some pain remain in illiteracy and fears;
standing up in darkness is done by few.
What a dictum written on the godly slate;
some hoarded more than they gave.
Some dreamt of food on an empty plate -
while a demonic master whipped his slave.
How could white skins' tears go dry?
How did those slave's blood run cold?
Does it differ - negro or a white child's cry?
Empires built on tortures, four centuries old.
Prasenjit©2023
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