| a poem by nublaccsoul x new-black-soul

Intruders forced through.

Strange grasses grew,

inside the hut, my heart the mud

by the fireplace at gran’s feet,

where Kei River made ash of chicken feet.

Artwork designed by Sihle G.

And so, they did away,

with the heads of men,

that their guns snuffed

and these bibles unroofed

grass-tops toppled off.

Urns of suns, gospel-choir hums,

church hymns for the hims,

torn at the herms,

who are these boyhood, childish,

churlish, and uncultured men?

- Capital punishment for capital-

For fifty-four thousand,

seven-hundred and fifty-three,

point seven-five-zero

54753.750 sunsets

the San fought,

the Khoi fought

the pale faces at the fort.

Credit: SnapxByX

Now I must look to my own heart,

that wants to beat Tutu’s forgiveness in nyaibow nyation nyolz rhythm.

Writer/Poet | This is ancestral, past-life reading; this is meditation & prayer; this is future telling. Always becoming. The undying soul in a decaying case.

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