There
is no border only a suture
Stitched
by stigmas.
Our
states have holes in them
From
sticking to their guns,
Stigmata.
The
only things bigger than the earth is our prejudice
And
faith will move mountains
But
it cannot budge ignorance.
An
island divided amongst itself cannot stand.
We
are broken, being pinned by the paralysis of empire.
Rwanda
reminds me of Republica.
I
was taught to hate you,
Echoing
whispers spread like notes in a classroom.
Do
you hate Haiti? Circle yes.
Want
to see Stockholm syndrome?
Visit
my republic, where slavery is ugly
But
our slave masters are beautiful.
Little
girls wither in the mirror
Trying
to get that hair just right
Wishing
they were just White
But
our blood is Triguena, Morena y Negra,
Como
Cela in la Sierra Maestra.
We
are masters of this bestia.
Our
island was the 1st Black republic of this hemisphere.
And
I want to tag that in big block letters on the 1 train,
Because
it’s easy to forget.
We
are laced with lull lullabies that lose track of our lament.
Listen
to the mountains.
They
DJ “Fight the Power”.
It’s
evident that PE sampled Haiti.
Its
#1 export isn’t sugar, its revolution,
The
Panther’s original source material for fighting the imperial.
In
fact, we should open a chain of stores
In
front of the hotels built on the most famous of shores.
It’s
slogan would be:
“Stomping
out European colonialism since before eighteen-O-four.”
You
see, we used to be powerful
We
used to be whole,
But
centuries of surgery left a suture
And
there are no borders any more,
Only
scars stitched by stereotypes.
Come
to D.R. if you want to deconstruct a duality.
Research
how far a people can be pushed before they hate themselves.
Our
conditioning is sick.
And
on the whim of others a border was stitched.
The
truth is they have sutured borders into all of us.
Secluding
our Afro-centric sentiments.
That’s
why we straighten our mountains and bleach our lands,
Segregate
our cities and privatize our sands.
Pero
yo, soy Aytiano.
And God does not make borders,
Only
mountains.
