A Story About Three Sisters

BLACK PEARL

SPECTRUM WAVE PUBLISHING

SPECTRUM WAVE MUSIC ENT.

COPYRIGHT@2025

A story about three sisters,

Separated from birth.

They later discovered their identity,

But they were only partially granted their liberation.

Jamaica was first captured,

Snatched by the sea-wolves’ hands,

A jewel traded between pirate bands,

Then claimed by a distant Crown’s demands.

She accepted the Crown’s gilded wealth instead,

A pact of sugar, rum, and silent dread.

Haiti was cast into devastation’s shame,

Born from the flame of a sacred, revolutionary name.

She built a fortress of determination,

Forged in the fire of a nation’s creation.

She claimed the secret weapon: Liberty,

And gave it to every link in the island chain,

A righteous scream against the rain of pain.

“Fight,” she whispered, “for every right.”

And her sisters listened in the night.

Cuba played the longest game,

The eldest, bearing a strategic name.

A republic in heart, but not in name,

She stayed behind, shouldering the blame—

The sacrifice, taking the bread crumbs instead,

While a world of empires turned overhead.

As the world turned, the years bled on.

Haiti was betrayed by the very spawn

Of her own freedom—children who worked not for a dime,

Who twisted her legacy, making the world unkind.

The toxic impact, a systemic imperial curse,

Waged feudal wars against the indigenous.

Colonial children, with papers and laws,

Tossed the original owners from their homes and caused.

This impact manifests as a historical trauma’s stain,

A cultural erasure, a persistent, dull pain.

Colonial structures, in modern disguise,

In courts and in agencies, under bureaucratic skies,

Relentlessly whitewash our cultural historic bequests,

Stealing our future, putting our souls to the test.

The forthcoming children of the heritage,

No longer updated their technology’s charge.

Their data was transferred, not into light,

But into panoramic sonic waves of might,

Used to enquire for minerals deep in the land,

Mapped as business enterprises, sold to the highest hand.

The skilled, trained mission? To persuade the indigenous,

Bidding them aid with a treacherous kiss,

So they could build a modern, pioneer frontier,

On the graves of ancestors, fueled by greed and fear.

The sisters made several attempts to warn

Their other island brothers, from before the storm.

But temptation brought wealth to the ruling nobles’ doors,

While the natives remained the true sufferers of wars.

Prices rose like floodwaters, taxes piled like stone,

Heavy burdens began to cripple the backbone.

And when more natural resources immersed the scene,

This is where the greed became obscenely keen.

In environmental laboratories, cold and stark,

Scientists gave birth to a new kind of dark:

A Cyclops with Four Eyes, a calculated swarm,

A weather-made weapon, a man-made form.

An imitation of a storm, with a feminine name,

Programmed for a singular, devastating aim.

Her name was Hurricane Melissa.