My eyes can  never say enough.

They are like the dry skin of the Desert Zebra.

My looks can never say enough.

They are fettered by the ways of the West.

They cannot sing the tales of the black man.

 
This skin is not dim as they tell me.
This skin is not like the witch-night sky,
It is like the warmth of the noon day
and the calmness of the Kola.
And they call me coloured,
make me tint myself to the tune of White noises.

There are not so many blacks out there
I am not one of the coloured boys,
I am a black man.