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Tirelessly rising, like cerosee tea to them, and apple to me
Tell them I am the Sankofa of the morning, shall we dance again
I was the Nightingale Midas could keep in the cage, the new sea
To sail, the festival beyond the extravaganza of old pain
           Trim sail and bottle torch, but never weep with dry eyes
           Bring flag and Mframadan down the pole and skies
           Tell them the river journeys on, it comes for me
           I am its harvest, I am its fruit, I am its Gethsemane.
                                          ii
You young ones must away from your rage to my age tree
Take this stick of light, this magic of wisdom, this bright sage
Carry him like an argument to Pharaoh’s face and so see
Deliverance from the bloody seas of dumb guns and carnage
          Let us dismantle the sorrow of ignorance, the need that chains
          Us to the deaf ears of our broken and eternal complaints
          For this native son, this black beautiful scholar was our wage
          And from this griot and dancer we take the lessons of our age.

And always may I remember I am only a branch, I belong to a tree
Bigger than my baobab of dreams, I drink from where roots draw
The sweet water of revival, and quenched my thirst for history
And boons of culture. Always I now write for us, I write our law
           Yet tongueless tongue-ing in Babel’s callous kingdom
            Belly grinder, I rise to dance in new sheaves of freedom
            The whip crack on black backs the sun could not dim
            Cannot stop the clutchie smoking memory of him

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