Herit Age

My story, your story, not just a story.
Her story, his story, all adage glory.
Black and white print bears my past
Quite livid
He wrote it, she wrote it
And the missionaries caught it
The eccentrics refer to it and quote it
The rappers flaunt it
The artists draw the art of soul from it
The ground turns coal from it
It’s the character of age at times depicted in ink
With a voice of belonging and origin
And in the mind of the scholar with a merit
It will sink.
It’s poor, it’s rich
It might be fame and fortune
You talk about that past, you must
Practice caution.
A wealth of history the living age must inherit
The witnessing of the past
We in age and off age must hear.
Silenced or loud with no choice we must bear
Let it not be synonymous with the colour of his skin
Let it stay valid like the relation to my keen
Let not the cemetery be a reminder of what our history gave
Let not your brain be romanced by ignorance,
While your grandfather’s chores lye in the grave.
I know, I know books can be scary
But living the presence of an unknown past is far much scarier
Today I stand tall, solid proof of my past
Skin dark as hell, bright white teeth with a heavenly glance
Hair kinky all locked up pure follicle macaroni
I am the gift to the present
I am content to the will you read in monochromatic
And sons and daughters will inherit
I am heritage.