The Death of Michael Brown A Poem by Pancho Dela Luna
The armed guards feared his color.
The power, intelligence, and beauty of his color.
His blackness strike their misguided pride.
His soul cried out like the heart-breaking funkiness of James Brown,
like the dream of doctor King.
Seven bullets entered his body:
Seven centuries of imperial hatred.
Ferguson became a city of cry,
a shout against a civilization of indifference;
against a world that refuses other colors.
His blood like the blood of many others and the blood of his ancestors
will remain a stain in the pitiless human memory,
it will echo like the blues that mourns in the night,
like jazz that breaks through the prison of separation;
his blood will tear the mainstream scripts:
the hypocrisy of authorities, the false sympathies, the obfuscation
of the media, the ignorant discussions…
Color-blindness is the opposite of love.
Love is the color of many colors.
A death of one color is the death of all the other colors.
- Pancho Dela Luna