Reparation Rights

The groans of ancient years still echo in my bones. It is a pain 
That lodges in the weariness of Africa. Curled in her, the strain 
Of old world history. Out of her given darkness triumph shines 
The light of all cities, world clamoring, and out of her plundered mines 
Glower the bright towers of world economy. We who lost are owed 
Much here. My ancestors were used: mediums of exchange; 
Stock for slave houses and ships; rich cargoes of commerce; 
And cattle to the whip. Toiling night and day and no remorse 
Nor recompense for labor, in humanity's disfavor. I am owed 
Because all my life I have been on a journey, going nowhere 
On my own. I did not this destination set; No man can reach 
Another's goal, I am bound to ship 'gainst my will. My soul's leached 
Of traditions: language and peace. I pine far from King's dream 
So stereotyped, so American, I move in jungles of passion 
My captors cannot read. I am overdiagnosed with tensions 
Strange to my desire. I must be paid since I did not set here 
This destiny I built them; like a moon I move and shine fair 
Imprisoned in the power of the sun. My heart groans, and I 
Cough up tides amids the white buds of cotton, breaking like a boil 
Upon the day. Why? Those owed least get paid still from our toil.

Copyright © L'Nass Shango | Year Posted 2012

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