Ludicrously, we have made race into the dominant narrative of our time.
It is an ironic narrative, because it is rarely spoken.
But it lurks in the crannies of our minds,
In the corners of our eyes,
Feasting on all that is insidious in our souls,
Its scaly fingers holding us back from embracing our complete humanity,
Its scraggy feet trampling on all that is humane within us.
Generations from now, when they have all turned brown,
Our children will look at us with scorn and derision,
And ask ‘How could they think that the skin corrupts the soul?’
‘How could they think, that the land of birth, deters doing wonders on earth?’
‘How did they come this far from reality?’

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