"I am hurt. There is blood on me. You do not care. You do not know me. You do not know me. You do not care. There is blood on me. Sometimes it gets on you. You do not care I am hurt. Sometimes it gets on your hands -- on your soul even. You do not care. You do not know me.
You do not care to know me, you say, because we are different. We are different you say.
You are white, you say. And I am black.
You do not know me.
I am all men tinged in brown. I am all men with a touch of black. I am you and I am myself.
You do not know me. You do not care, you say.
I am an inflow of God, tossing about in the bodies of all men: all men tinged and touched with black.
I am not pure Africa of five thousand years ago. I am you -- all men tinged and touched. Not old Africa into somnolence by a jungle that blots out all traces of its antiquity.
I am all men. I am tinged and touched. I am colored. All men tinged and touched; colored in a brown body.
Close all men in a small space, tinge and touch the Space with one blood -- you get a check-mated Hell.
A check-mated Hell, seething in a brown body, I am.
I am colored. A check-mated Hell seething in a brown body. You do not know me.
You do not care -- you say.
But still, I am you -- and all men.
I am colored. A check-mated Hell seething in a brown body.
Sometimes I wander up and down and look. Look at the tinged-in-black, the touched-in-brown. I wander and see how it is with them and wonder how long -- how long Hell can seethe before it boils over.
How long can Hell be check-mated?
Or if check-mated can solidify, if this is all it is?
If this is all it is.
***
Not in my day or your tomorrow -- perhaps -- but somewhere in God's day of meeting -- somewhere in God's day of measuring full measures overflowing -- the blood will flow back to you -- and you will care."
-- "Drab Rambles," by Marita Bonner