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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