We have not built lasting
monuments of severe stone
facing the sea, the watery tomb,
so I call these songs
shrines of remembrance
where faithful descendants
may stand and watch the smoke
curl into the sky
in memory of those
devoured by the cold Atlantic.
In every blues I hear
riding the dank swamp
I see the bones
picked clean in the belly
of the implacable sea.
Do not tell me
it is not right to lament,
do not tell me it is tired.
If we don't, who will
recall in requiem
the scattering of my tribe?
In every reggae chant
stepping proud against Babylon
I hear a blue note
of lament, sweet requiem
for the countless dead,
skanking feet among shell,
coral, rainbow adze,
webbed feet, making as if
to lift, soar, fly into new days.