By Aditya Ranjan
Everyday a black man strives,
his strong arms yet weak price.
Everyday a black woman cries,
when her husband mysteriously dies.
Everyday a black child cries,
his innocent arms mining the site.
And yet everyday they smile,
hoping to God all the while
Maybe men of whiter colour,
will stop treating their lives a figment.
And God regrets his decisions now,
“Perhaps, I put the wrong pigment.”
By Aditya Ranjan