Not Black, Nor White Poem by Procyon Mukherjee

This is not a Time on the cross
And I am no Fogel and his ilk
Claiming slavery was efficient
And the Nobel thereafter

This is when we rise to see
And we have our moments in every act
That a wrong like this is beyond colour
Or a hate brewing inside the skin

The gasp of the less privileged on the street
Or the slow appeal
Of the cuffed hands shaking in the back
While the knee is like a knife
Clogging the veins of a life
That could be anything

But black, nor white
Knocks the senses to its final door
The door that took us to where we started
But now it is no more a start
Just wrath on the streets

Fogel, you were half right
We will live another life
Holding what we could move on with
Not black, nor white