The lights of the city glide within me
but do not pierce through me with their glitter
deep in me there still persists the black depths
of the black history i hear singing
I have heard of blood that ran in torrents
and of the whip that cracked a thousand tims,
of the white man who stood guard on the slaves,
sparks in his eyes and thunder in his voice.
We here are the children of a dense night
which is shattered in place by srange cris rages
supposed for many hundred years
today are globules of our own red blood.
On wonderful things, oh cities of light
your lights do not keep company with me
within me there still rmains the black bass
of the black history. I hear singing.