The Black People
Bhupinder Purewal
Let me tell you a short story
of why we are called black people.
Trees lost their greenish leaves,
eaten by a fire puking snake, galvanised fire.
Black hole of the unknown roots,
that can’t be explained to flowery plants.
It may sound a vain question,
Oh, why did you leave your motherland?
Our explanation is simple and straight,
“To cloth our bodies and feed our being,”
material love for worldly goods,
with little love for motherland.
Hey my friends, our nest is on the
top of a tree,
the tree that swing with the rhythms of the wind,
that’s where we dine and dance,
but you are stereotyping our every move,
is that why you call us black people?
I have confession to make,
we are here to live and here to die,
the force of nature will protect us all.
We cage our lives in place, the cage
without the locks.
It does not have the holy water, nor does any
poisonous water.
Suspicion is grown in every field,
that caused us sleepless nights.
We are called black people, the
people of black land,
We invited them like trusted friends,
they took advantage of our hospitality,
with no gratitude and little consideration,
they invaded our land like a pack of vulture.
They hunted us to the boundaries of
extinction,
like little sparrows hunted by the birds of prey,
they tore the heart of our very being, sitting beside
our field.
Then they asked us to knock on the
tyrant’s door
and say “My Lord you our saviour’s”.
The people who are responsible for
destroying our very being,
are telling us that it’s not them but us,
responsible for our deeds.
Destroying our culture and religion in the name of
their civilization,
killing innocent people in the name of their
humanity,
pillaging peaceful and beautiful valleys,
where the birds of peace used to sing their melodious
song,
there is no peace, no melodious and no birds,
to sing those melodious songs,
in this beautiful land of black people.
Oh friends that’s where we come
from.,
black people from the black land,
where nothing left for us to celebrate.
We are told Black people have no
religion,
no culture or no language,
for these are given to them by their masters.
The eradication of our religion, our
language and our culture,
for them is an adventure,
they destroyed & pillage on the name of ‘civilization’,
but for us my friends its not ‘civilization’
but ‘evilization’.
They justify their stance by telling
us,
“When in Rome do as the Roman do”,
but we resist all the force of temptation,
and these civilized adventurous manifestation.
We used to live in Blackman’s
land with our family & friends,
we lost our loved ones in an instant of history,
they departed as if they never existed.
Oh, my friends, how we cry with our
dry tears,
but we must not complain, because we are black people
living in an unknown land.
We told that Black people have a
black heart,
black tongue & black words,
oh, my friends I have a confession to make,
we have an clean heart
pure soul & the words we use are honest as well.
The jingling noise of shining coins
attract everyone’s attention,
it’s a noise louder than our screams,
the glitter of material wealth is greater than,
their conscience & their deeds.
We can scream, shouts or call for
help,
like a call from buried alive
in an unmarked grave of unknown kind
“help me, please help me because I am alive”.
none is to come, all door are closed,
oh my dear friends who is going to defend the
undefendable,
that is why we are called the undefendable Black
people.
To conclude my story short I must
emphasis,
no shackles can restrain our feet,
nor handcuffs on our wrist,
we were born free and will remain free.
*****
The fife*
Bhupinder Purewal
The fife is still lively with music,
while the barrel of revolver smells of a smoke.
The enemies are dead or
frightened hidden behind the ancient ruins.
Your being is partially conscious,
as if you don’t know of your own presence.
While the barrel of a revolver smells
of smoke
the fife is still lively with music……
War reaches out its tentacles,
Unsharpened knives sharpened on stone.
Keeping the constant barrage of
blows,
contradictory elements fighting with boiling blood.
With rain taking its routes,
sea shells open their mouth with thirst.
Hands raise for prayer, ‘Peace
Peace’!!
Blood spilled on the sand,
states won and states lost.
Bodies cut into pieces,
trees have grown new leaves.
Wind blew and bamboo canes rubbed
against each other.
The jungle will catch fire any second and burn.
Everybody screamed ‘Peace Peace’!!
You sliced your own calf,
like chewing your own bones.
You lived with your own pain,
liking the suffering caused by this pain.
A million times the path is closed,
you always return to yourself.
What is yours and what belong to
third party,
how could it be stamped?
What is mine? What is not? Who is to make the
judgement?
Your truth is your, while all the rest is a devine
creation.
Is there any soul which knows within
itself, who forced to lie.
Who is to maintain the old tradition,
and who said, Peace Peace Peace’!!!
fife meaning Bansari*(*Music
instrument, Flute)
