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Paul Immanuel
BlackFace
Surrender your ears to the pangs and pains
feel the iron chains that choke the black soul the black hole,
riddled with esoteric truths confined in indisypherable caves
sought after by the brave.
Which slaves murmer in the sound of the sea?
An amalgamation of pain, fallen but not slain.
Chose suiside over shame. Calling to their gods
when seeing the europeans unquenchable flame.
Estranged they stand, the god like man.
Consider the monolithic spirit of hate,
which chased our race and mocked our face.
Until we mocked our face aswell and entered
through the gates of hell.
Under its spell our wishing well, filled with
wishes to be white, aswell.
Black, angry, gloomy, sinister,wicked, black sheep...
Pay heed to the minister. For he can cleanse your
African soul. Born damned, born cursed, born wretched
ten fold.
Surrender your minds for the answers are there,
and beauty envelops you though you are far from fair.
Circumspection is paramount for one to understand,
and come to terms with the fact that a black hand,
stole a black life, black heart, black soul.
And traded this treasure in along with fine gold.
For cheap brass wear, old cloths, cottons and aged flint locks
that rediculed that hand wich held it by blowing their fingers off.
Surrender your ears to the torments of the past.
Inhumane rascim, unabashed, unmasked.
Contrast the present with the past,
as long as the " Third World" cries the capatalists may laugh.
Then ask yourself where do you stand, black skin white masks
the ambivalent black man.
Forever holding out the palms of his black hands,
to establish a connection with the god like man.
And for the Maroon type man that will rebel until his death,
and curse the white man with his venomous last breath.
Tortured spirit witihout rest, Jesus Christ he won’t confess.
Though he knows the foreign religion with precision he couldn’t care less.
He talks with his drums ’though there is air in his lungs.
He refuses to speak if not by his mother tongue.
He ignores what he is taught, the rebels life is very short.
He is there for all to see, limp body swinging from a tree.
though not alone, their spirits roam, until they see that which was their home.
What home? Whoes home? the poor man roams.
The tortured spirit cries and remains alone.
And this takes place within the black soul, the black hole.
The vast black space which envelops the black race.
Black waste, black race, black face.
© Paul Immanuel 2007
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