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.