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In many silences it chides us, not
That we are an eloquent lot,
But like slow-paced snails who crawl upon
A city street, we speak to be stepped on.
And we bear our brittle shell in shame,
By our prison’s prison bound the same.

In whiteness we see ourselves, the thought
And the soul, for though we are wrought
Of rainbows and prisms, we feel painted,
And whiten the color where we’re tainted.
And we bear such bitter, brittle elements
As clothing, not our ingredients.

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