The blind seventeenth century poet,
Effulgent of his inner eye, cried,
To the Lord, Avenge O Lord,
Thy slaughtered saints, when the carnage
At Piedmont shook his soul.
Slaughtered saints are as many
In black history as are canonised ones
In white history.
They define light by skin colour
Even as it is felt opening eyelids in sunshine.
Charleston is yet another Piedmont
Where white grave diggers send black men
To perpetual darkness below ground
For a change, oblivious of
The omniscient light that happily delivers them
From the epidemic of whiteness,
The antisocial cataract.
As black corpses of duped pastors
Litter the aisles and the pews
Somewhere a blockhead thinks himself
The Roof and Crown of Creation,
All by himself, existing all by himself,
With none to share in the over abundant world
The plenty and the pathos.


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