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Picture decibels of granite landslide wailing
Rocks of flocking tears tumbling savagely down
Upon the dry valley, and the heart's raining
Wide torrents of griefs in shoutings unknown
And then strangely the recognition
Each one knowing the time and condition.

I know you do not understand what I tell
About the old village in communication 
Wireless, and no technology as that bell
Of sighs clanging in valleys of trees, attrition
For the belated love one gone, the cry
Of sorrow uprooting rocks and roofing sky.

I want you to see the old Maroon ways dead
And the legacy left in a crocus bag there
One machete, an abeng, and Bible at his head
The lone Rastaman taking it up with his tear
And left the callous crowd that cry and lie for rum
To study the script that brought him freedom.

He looked at it, but could not fit the words, so
He wrote with his tongue a new approach
At words, with more proximity to life and ego
And fence that allowed none to encroach
Who were strangers to his tribulation and need
To survive this existence on a puff of weed.

He spoke "I and I" for we, a sense that said
The collective was on flesh in different skins
And we were only branches of the Mighty Dread
Separated by customs, flawed beliefs and sins.
He said "I overstand" for the understanding we
Claim through muddled mire of mangy history.

Thus the Maroons bled a physical revolution, fend
And left his legacy to the Rastaman to complete
The cultural revolution, bringing us to honeyed end
Changing language, music, and lifestyle, a feat
That Mao dreamed but could not do, overturning
The oppressors' world by a smoky drumming.   

The Maroon never dies while his children live:
Pocomania, Rastaman, Reggae music burning
The Kiya hut of Taliban, Mandela prison pensive
Tremble at the stones tumbling and piling
On the blackheart man's grave. No more bush
Brigades hiding the British guns. Love comes with a hush.
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