Who will go before me?
Who will tell my story?
I have searched and tested,
Have tried yet am bested
When I see what for too long
Has been perpetuated.
It’s that silent scream,
that missing Colour.
Like a dislocation,
an incomplete narration
And true to form,
it was an overlooked proclamation.
For too long, too long
She had been an invisible pattern on
History’s threadbare tapestries.
Streamlined and made applicable,
Through the crushing pen
Of someone whom the truth always
Evaded and eluded.
No one saw her narrative as being worth recording-
“Why, it’s a woman, and black,” he said and stretched, yawning.
Like the blood of the martyrs soaking through the earth
Her infinite wail goes unmarked,
Unrecorded, unsubstantiated and unrewarded.
Who will go before me? Who will tell my story?
The first will be last, the last will be first
Said one brave messenger-his words symbolised a birth
For some they carried judgement, a lasting vision
The weight of the grey matter did little to represent the division
There is a clamour, a cacophony of voices-
It’s a circus and with a gentle but measured swoop
The trapeze falls down and the circus chimpanzee bows
A dull clap from onlookers as once again
the conflict remains, Unresolved and incomplete
Something rotten in the state of Denmark.
Like waters unchartered, the restless invisibles
Urge and swell against the current,
Pushing, testing, searching and sometimes resting.
This she does know: The reflection of the sunlight
Forming a wealth of diamond prisms on an
Undulating blue pool can bring
A thousand seconds of peace and gentle resting.
The answer to the question lies in centuries of
Thwarted destiny and decaying potential
In the woodworks, right at the heart of the matter
Lies an age-old predator with a marked and set agenda.
Biding it’s time, perverting all that is sublime
Yet all creation awaits the revealing of the sons of God.
‘Be gentle, be patient, be all that is lowly
And in return I will increase and enlarge you-
Add to your territory.
And for eternity’s days, your story will unfold
Where men, women and children will never grow old
No weeping, no sickness, no gnashing of teeth
Where each waking moment will bring ecstasies of relief.
In my suffering, partake and be refined through the flame
For to know me is riches and to die in me is gain
Your suffering Eve’s daughter shall never be in vain.’
And in that moment a new narrative was born,
She rose above degradation and Their underlying scorn
She arose and she shone for her glory had come
And in that fateful moment, a lifetime of scarring was finally undone.