Fair black lady,

your identity is the night,

your colour is the day.

Your complexion is not just defined as a shade but as a measure of light,

dark like fertile soil,

fair like the morning sun.

Roots of Afro,

features sculpted with precise,

you are the pride of nature.

Your skin holds warmth like evening soil after cloud's dew.

There is no apology in your tone,

no negotiation in your existence.

Your womb nurtures kings,

your presence nullifies protocol.

Your hair is your dignity, 

but your dignity is not in your hair,

it is carved in roots

that cannot be shaved away.

Your eyes, transparent as the ocean,

may reflect vulnerability,

but conceals deep strength and power.

Your feet grace the land you walk on.

Your lips speak of understanding.

Emperors rule with your wisdom

and borrow your mercy for their verdicts.

My Fair Black Lady,

You're a precious sight,

a rare treasure.

Your beauty is ethereal, unparalleled.

Oh, how you would look in a green dress

beneath the graceful witness of the sun.

How you would look at dusk

in effortless simplicity.

How you would look

descending flowered stairs.

Above all, I think you would look best dancing to the music of birds in your kitchen at 5 a.m. 

Because perfection is the only language you've mastered.

Grace.

Elegance.

Wisdom.

All gathered into one word:

You. 

(Entry 50 of my poem collections titled – THRESHOLD)