Like a land readied for a planting season
So do I feel cultivated
With seeds of celebrated afflictions
I carry a scar of identity
Carved by this brutal sculptor
My infantile pleas ignored
Verdict tradition had passed
That dug fierce furrows on my face
For a crime of ancestry at conception
My face a papyrus for cursive hieroglyphs
Now I revile the mirrors
And ignore my reflections
Am comforted by my shadows
Every day I rue the ridicule
The pathetic jeers and stares
At the graphs plotted on my face
Six dual lanes on a human cheek
Slices and cracks
Civilization came late
For this eternal mask I must wear
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