This sonnet addresses the irony of calling someone "coloured," highlighting the contrast between black skin, which remains constant, and white skin, which changes with emotional or physical states. This poem reflects on how the colour of one's skin can shift depending on circumstances, challenging the societal labels that define people by their appearance.

When I was born, my skin was dark as night,
And in my sorrow, still I wore that hue;
Through burning suns or fear’s relentless bite,
My colour stayed—forever firm and true.

But you, when born, were soft and blushing pink,
When anger flared, your face was burning red,
In sadness, blue as skies that drown and sink,
In sickness, green — as if by poison fed.

When fear would grip you, yellow turned your skin,
A rainbow shifting with each passing shade,
Yet still you call me coloured — think again,
Who wears the mask that nature’s hand has laid?

Judge me not by the colour that you see, 
For my hue stays, while yours shifts constantly.