“1, 2, 3…They lynched Another One”

for George Floyd

D-E-M-O-C-R-A-C-Y blending with D-E-A-T-H, which is true?
Black death, I say,
Lynching, they shout,
Terror, together we agree.
He refused to die in pain; he was lynched in vain.
Breath stops the track.
Death wins the match.

Is democracy for all?
Lynching is for some.
We bleed.
We mourn.
We grieve.
We refuse to dance.
We don’t beat the drum.
We stop the music.
We play our own song,
A song of sorrow,
A melody of melancholy,
In a land of bitter and sour,
Where the sun does not rise.
This place does not give light to the moon and a smile to the stars.

This land is not our fatherland.
Our mothers do not claim it.
Bastard born they say we are.
This country is not our own.
This soil drinks our blood,
at every moment,
day and night,
We bleed.
We hurt.
We die.
Healing escapes our presence.
Far away is our cure.
Our hearts do not belong.
Redemption bids goodbye.
Democracy is not kind to us.

1, 2, 3…They lynched one, two, and three black bodies.
small, young, and old
One death,
Two deaths,
Even three at once.

***

I was tormented and traumatized last night about the slaughter of George Floyd. I went to bed at 4:00 A.M. While I was reflecting on Mr. Floyd’s execution, I wrote the poem as a song of lament and mourning:

“1, 2, 3…They Lynched Another One.” I dedicated the poem to George Floyd.