Whenever I find myself distraught, helpless and angry, I tend to turn to poetry to find solace. Also because at times poetry can simply express your most inner feelings in such a simple and majestic manner. It can capture one's anger, love and frustrations all in one stanza.
When I look at the dismal and hapless situation black African men find themselves in, in Libya, my heart bleeds.
I'm reminded of one of Longfellow's poems:
The Slave's Dream
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain road.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the...