Harassing Your Subtlety

Author: D’Bara Arruda

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Dear you, who claims to be free of all prejudice,
but whose mind still carries the subtle scent of the master’s house…

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After I broke the chains,
maintaining the flow like a current,
but now, a current that drags and does not imprison,
first I questioned
and was blamed for pointing out the flaw.
By pointing it out, I got no apology—
only interrogations.

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And why silence my indignation
when what comes from my voice
is the tone of black skin,
diminished in a distorted scale?

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The worst part of being at war
is precisely the moment you discover
that feeling is a sugar crystal
in an anthill,
but reason is bitter
and no one dares to swallow it.

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Darker than the glow of my soul
is the density of my pain.
Clearer than my smile
is the latent unanswered "why".

 

Well…
those who once used me as a rug
now trip over the unease
of my ancestral ego.

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They deceive themselves
throwing excuses like drying powder.

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Emotion is authentic,
the images are still vivid,
and the tone is both lyrical and combative.
The verse?
That I extract from the disdain in your eyes,
once subtle,
but now laughing in my face
before calling me
the recipient of your stray bullet.

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My back recites,
in bold Braille,
the cracking of the whip
and the grinding of chains
that still enslave my existence.

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There’s a “that” repeated, I know,
and I know it doesn’t sound coherent to you
that “chain” is singular,
but my ideology does not feed
your brain-grinding machinery.

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Maybe what you want is the plural:
“the chains,”
meaning, in street terms, total servitude.

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Something of identity,
what you label as victimism.
But perhaps the pride
you branded with hot iron
would have stunk less across history
if time had whitened me.

Well…
I won’t deny that you at least pretend to try,
and you did it like this:

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Shamefully I —
(I mean, you, who stole
the spotlight of global power).

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Fear knocks at your door
and what terrifies you
is knowing that, with awareness,
we’re doing the opposite
of what you did
when you broke into my house,
profaned my sanctuary,
and imposed an endless rule
with gunpowder and whip.

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Hahaha.
Today, what you hear in the favelas
and repress with violence
is the “pancadão,” the heartbeat rhythm
that echoes the lament of the modern senzala.
The sound of the bill arriving,
of history knocking at the door
to collect reparations.

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Knock knock…