THE CHILD WHO SANG

If she could sing Her voice would sound like fledglings On the wing in spring. But her songs are silent butterflies. Her musical wings have been clipped Along with her childhood, Her trust and spirit stolen. Extinguished through fear and betrayal. Occasionally she glimpse her image in a mirror She would mime with a hurt smile, “and the coloured girl’s go, do do do do do do do do do” But behind sad eyes screams a woman’s voice. Her desire paralysed through psychological war fare. In school she sings in unison. Nursery rhymes hymns playtime chants. No one there tells her to shut up. Or to keep secrets In the playground her shadow whispers. Until she reaches her front door. Then Once again the Joy that was song And colourful strings is mute! Injustice became victory & truth one Sunday Kindness touched her soul Acknowledgement gave her liberty As the inaudible screams soared towards the sun The battle was over for….. “and the coloured girl’s go, do do do do do do do do do”