Hatred of pigment,
of a person's country of origin,
we are all spilled from the same font;
coloured by the Sun and earth,
kissed by the stars.
All that's left is a fear of culture.
And a fear of culture is not diabolical:
to be diabolical, something must
twist the human.
A hatred of cuture is a mindlessness,
a lack of the human.
And so all that's left is a self-hate:
the hatred of the self.
Hate the misunderstandings in your soul,
and project them onto others.
Black faces glow with a knowing
because that is the colour of
your pitted soul of Pluto.