In the distance through the hallway of floating bells, stands in the crystalline mist, swirling lies of truth. All around in parallel worlds, dancing on magical pearls, of fabricated books, refuting, disproving, polluting, such washed brains, so that later in one’s dusty life, he or she, shall not delve deeper, to seek light, and peace, so bright, the uprooting, and full bodied, not of diluting, truth. The pale one’s hide in cloaks, high upon court-mountains, masked with hats made from water fountains, and whisper long Chinese lies. Don’t answer your telephone for, on the receiving end, will be the end of the dark-son; watch, and follow, – retrace the steps of the black one. For buried deep within the soil of Nubian mothers, lies ingrown seeds, that now are depicted by lighter shade. Death without justification, underneath past bliss, lies shoved down the throats of Khemet men, with black lips…..dying truths, hidden in between unseen walls, and made out as superstitious speaks. All jealous with dark eyes, an opposite pigment, near faded, jaded, yet they are self-proclaimed illuminated. Overstand what they’ve been trying to make you understand, and reject the one’s with the snow leopard hair, and frosty colored hands. Dear mother Nubia, you might get me killed, here, there, before, and after Yah…I am not Egyptian, or Agiptos…I don’t come from a made up place named Afica; so still there is no peace, for some stripped king- renamed, and raped of his History…so please….refrain for false speaks, my mother is that of Isis, and not of Greece.