The blunted eyes of our youth search for a guide,
And after four hundred years it seems like some are still stepping off the planks
Lines of salt etched down cheeks from tears they failed to hide,
They weep openly in the streets flocked together like pigeons, waiting for bread on river
An aching pain seeps down the body, and they say there is a tingling in the toes
Even so, I could tell it was their soles that hurt.
And though the backs that were cracked upon froze
In a dark and indigent future, I swore I saw my identities worth.
I observed the full bellied crosses pregnant with lost souls
And above those crucifixes were carved their identities, in forms and figures
They went from niggers colored’s to Negros
Afros and Afro Americans and right back to niggers.
I wept for I knew I could not sell them mine, I sank to my knees.
We continue to struggle and the taste in our mouths remains bitter