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!
