The Legacy

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.