You are a fascinating person.
Sorrounded by legends
And myths, ancient and modern.
Your jet-black, ramrod- straight hair
Cascades like waterfalls deep in the jungle,
Where once, tribal lords
Must have paid homage to your beauty
With songs that enchant us still,
The quiet forest reverberating
With drumbeats, as you swayed to the rhythm.
Now you carry the song in your heart
As you lose yourself among the crowd
In the busy city, a far cry from tribal ways.
You speak their language, live their life,
Desperate to fit in, a question of survival.
You do not know your walk gives you away,
For you still walk to the beat of drums
From an ancient, forgotten time,
When you were noble, yet never a savage.
You ignore such reminders, hectically trying
To forge a Self acceptable to them.
Your image in the mirror
Only reminds you your eyes are different.
In vain you wish for a different face:
Larger eyes, sharper features. You look like yourself
And that contributes to your victimization.
They do not understand your ways,
The easy camaderie, the uninhibited joy,
The assumption that people are as good as you.
They do not understand your pain
Or the lengths you go to hide it,
When you sing your sorrow-songs.
Your inability to blend in marks you out
As an object around which myths are spun.
You mesmerize, fascinate, attract and enchant,
You arouse curiosity, suspicion, fantasy, jealousy
Which must be conquered
By conquering you.
So they fabricate these myths
In an effort to slot you
Into a recognizable category.
Sister, don’t help perpetuate these myths.