Sometimes I sit with my notepad,
And look up through the sunbeams,
And God, people glint like the morning dew,
I could never fathom how color is supposed to matter,
Ebony skin glows rich like the darkest of soil, full and bursting with life,
Peach skin shines like the softest of satin, a blushing rose against the bluest of skies,
Brown skin glitters like polished bronze, liquid amber through the brightest of dawns,
White skin blinds like the purest of snow, freshly fallen like gentle soft petals of art,
My breath catches in my throat,
How do I tell people that we, made in the very image of God himself, could never be ugly in our skin,
The moon doesn't call the sun ugly just because one shines golden and the other silver,
How pitiful it must be to look at the dark and not think of the richness of our earth,
To look at the pale and not think of the mighty snow laden mountains stretching taunt across the sky,
To look at the brown, and not see the molten gold of the sun on the dawn of the darkest night,
People are simply gorgeous, aren't they,
Lost in laughter and shared grins and mischievous eyes,
And I am the fortunate poet who gets to sit and see and tell the world,
That if beauty and grace were daughters of simply colour,
Then the lotus would never have been born of the mud.


© Silvy Abraham