It’s only in the land of black, Where I can hold my pen and scribble, Scribble and write And then be prepared to die Die an accident death, Or by that stray bullet meant to kill a running thief Only in the land of black Am I prepared to die, Die for what I write To die for what they believed in For death is just but an owl’s song And with death comes rest But still I write Under the hungered shelters Of cold and endless heat Pain and dead music And bulleted holes in my matchbox home But I write Cautiously, Then listen, Listen for approaching footsteps So I hide my papers Under the torn mattress and sheets I write again Of hard core crimes, Slaved women and kids In a land of white they chose not Of impunity and scandals, I write names in the sand, And scribble reality on my paper I write Of black tears Shed in a black land Seen and ignored Laughters…, Smiles of the rich Grins of the p...