It is a stark irony that all beautiful things in this world coexist with malicious evil in a paradoxical harmony. This remarkable, timeless classic is often reprinted when we have blood in our hands, that refuses to go away, even with sanitizer.
This poem is written with ink distilled from blood, from pain and suffering and from years of being subjected to violence and oppression. These are the ghosts of unheard voices finally piercing through the walls smashing down the burden of untold stories.
The poem is not woke. It is better than that. It is the voice of defiance, not outcries of demands. It’s the anthem of the ones who have no roads to take that they make their own way. It is not the lullaby of the lost. Each line has a history that looks into the future with a ray of hope. Yet we shamelessly repeat history
The poem resonates the pride in being black. Be it the oil wells in the living room, gold mines in the backyard or diamonds between the legs, the poem takes up a spiritual flavour transcending identity and ethnicity through a call for radical self acceptance and self respect. It is a poem for all of us. It is an ode to our resilience that help us rise above it all. With the certainty of the tides, the moon and the sun ,through all the archetypal symbols from nature, the poem calls us to wake up from the spell of ignorance and re-ignite our humanity.