I can not say what history begot me
But I am sure it's one of violence
For I have not white or black skin
But blazing and blinding red.
Not the red of vermilion
But the dark, nauseating red of blood
The one that makes you cringe
And step back in revulsion.
It's the red which speaks to
The primeval desires in you
And the red of the blood
Spilling out of a sacrificial animal.
It's not the red of the setting sun,
But the red of flames dancing around
A hamlet of burning houses.
I do not know what history begot me
But I am sure it's one of violence.