Django Unchained

In the dust‑laden lanes of a forgotten South,
a man of black furrowed brow steps through the river of roughed‑up red –
Django speaking the tongue of the condemned, his name a rallying cry,
a “freer”, a master of his own fate, in a land that prized its colour in chains.

The grin of Dr. Schultz, a German dentist with a taste for justice,
silences the clamor of wagons with a pistol’s click,
his “saviour” corks a monopoly against the cruel maneuvers
of the plantation’s dark lords who wore their sway like a housecoat.

With a crimson licence on his jaw, Django slices through the scheme
whilst the clatter of sabre‑clad voices echoes, louder than a ringing trumpet,
the women’s laughter a rustle of vines, the man’s blood a mint‑coloured tide –
the frame of each brutal fight is washed in the red of it all.

And yet the film holds a cliche sharp as a rusty gun;
the king’s duty – to profit from the roaring crowds –
and the noble sound of jazz that frees his spirit:
“Oh, I have your sweet justice for the black enemy’s gun.”

For in the end’s flickering glow, we hear the ordinary man’s prayer –
to rid his soul of memories that call for revenge,
in the bright memory of palettes of towns and deserts,
the die of a fearless swan who fights for a freedom with no finish line.