The Color of My Skin

Work-worn hands weathered by time

Decades of lifting, holding, loving

Hoisting children skywards, then

With the passage of time, blessed

To be able to hoist my children’s children

High into the sky, happy, innocent and free

My eyes have seen and witnessed so much

During the course of a full life

Wars raging in far-flung places

Droughts, famine, suffering and pain

The blood runs freely through my veins

Coursing easily and unfettered

Riots and unrest; civilians outraged

At acts of violence metered out

Unnecessary inequalities and hatred

Instilled over time, ingrained so deep

But why? The color of my skin

Has no reflection on me being me

Actions and words spoken; compassion shown

To my fellow man — a warm smile, a handshake

In gratitude and appreciation of work done

Or time given freely in acts of genuine kindness

The true nature of our souls will always shine through

The color of our skin

* * *

This story was first published on Medium, where you can find more of my work. Why not get a weekly update from my village in England by signing up to Rosy's Ramblings? I publish every Saturday and it's free!

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