The Devil Be In Our Ignorance

 

     We balk at the treatment of children,

When shouts upon the Dark Continent label

Them as witches,

     Yet,

Here in Europe,

Here among the Christians who

Claim the higher ground,

     The copper coloured top

Upon a babe, can signal superstitious ways,

 

     Some will shout a blasphemy,

Some will clearly move away,

Some will never reason to themselves

It’s just the colour of their hair,

For you hear the old wives tales

     Foretold in prophecy

From clairvoyants seizing purse;

A life of fortitude for the child entails;-

As he grows within their hurt.

 

     How can he state

His innocence, when written

Before he came,

A curse upon his golden locks

From those they say are sane,

How can he let them know,

He’s as fragile as the rest,

How can he tell them all

He’s not evil in intent,

     What choice of life

Will he have if the superstitious

Are believed,

What chance to claim

His rights to life

When hatred be their need?

 

     We say we are developed,

But none of that is true,

As sitting here who writes these words

Be the child they did that too,

     And even upon this day

A half a century in tow,

I am tarnished by a predicament,

That isn’t in my faith.

    

     When will people grow I ask

With concerns upon my first,

As remembering in the playground

They chaperoned the others move away,

     They left my son

To be alone where no adult

Showed they cared,

All because of superstition;

For his copper coloured hair.

 

Michael Waite 24th November 2014.