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Anam Asif Apr 2018
This strange feeling we have,
Since we stepped here.
Pure are the whites,
With flaws are born , the blacks.
Brought up in the Indian culture,
That tea had the inferiority complex,
Fooled were we that a cup of tea would make us dark.
Glad were we to be not among them,
Sure we did avoid the tea.
Now that we think,
Why is color an identity?
We shall not forget,
All of us disfigured it.
I seek it,
For I am not white.
Can't call me black either,
I'm not discerned as you want.
To those beautiful people,
By all means, I call to you.
Don't conceal nor fear it,
So are you extraordinary.
Lock up your woes, flaunt all your shades.
And when they provide contrast to it,
I'd be ashamed of their deeds.
I lay my head down once again,
As I hear those people,
Pray that their color changed.
Trust me, I feel the pain.
I ask myself over again,
Will we ever end this cruel game?

— The End —