Who is black, tell me true,
One who picks up sacks of hue,
Or one who mends the tracks so true,
Both paint the canvas of worth anew.
One toils under the sun's fierce gaze,
Lifting loads in myriad ways,
The other, hands calloused, sincere,
Mending paths, year after year.
Both dwellers in shadows cast,
Their labor's value unsurpassed,
Skin's hue defines not their grace,
Nor diminishes their rightful place.
One hauls burdens, the other mends,
Each story a tapestry that transcends,
The colors that the eye might see,
Unveiling worth in its entirety.
So, who is black? I say to you,
Not defined by what they do,
But by the strength and love they hold,
Their worth shines brighter than pure gold.
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