I was not blind—until they named my dawn their night.
I was not shattered—until they drew the line, called it right.
I was not a slave—until they priced my breath in gold.
I was not mute—until they taught me their tongue, then sold
my own for scrap. I was not poor—until they came
with coins for my soil, left me begging in the flame
of their progress. I was not armed—until they branded
my hands weapons, my child collateral, my home expanded.
I was not hate—until they salted my wounds with prayer.
I was not hunted—until they built a world where my air
is a permit, my skin a warrant, my blood debate.
Who are they? The same hands—different mask, same hate:
the census-taker counting my worth in dust,
the priest blessing bombs with Psalms of lust,
the general mapping my veins as borders,
the banker trading my grief for quarters.
They carve their chaos deep—claim it divine.
Yet here I stand: unyielding, undrowned, mine.