And history bites

When it’s moulded into

The shape of a town

That doesn’t welcome natives in pink.

And history bites when it

Sings the song of a bird

With feet fastened with the fetters of customs.

And this is how history bites:

A rose dressed in fig leaves,

Less human, less alive;

Lips stitched with customs

And the right to be silent.

And history bites when she can’t speak

Because she is pink,

Her crime is being pink in a

Town that doesn’t hug natives

From smelted bones.

And history bites!


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here