We Are the Sound
Black art will never whisper
It comes with its own rhythm,
Feet tapping to the djembe,
Reminiscing of home.
It survives in the hands that bend color into opportunity,
In bantu knots of constellations
Marking where we have been and still left to go.
It croons on street corners
On canvasses, big and bold.
Every line spoken, every beat formed
Uplifts our coily hair towards the sun.
We honor the echoes
We hold the same truth
We are the sound.
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