A closed window looks down <br />on a dirty courtyard, and black people <br />call across or scream or walk across <br />defying physics in the stream of their will <br /> <br />Our world is full of sound <br />Our world is more lovely than anyone's <br />tho we suffer, and kill each other <br />and sometimes fail to walk the air <br /> <br />We are beautiful people <br />with african imaginations <br />full of masks and dances and swelling chants <br /> <br />with african eyes, and noses, and arms, <br />though we sprawl in grey chains in a place <br />full of winters, when what we want is sun. <br /> <br /> We have been captured, <br />brothers. And we labor <br />to make our getaway, into <br />the ancient image, into a new <br /> <br />correspondence with ourselves <br />and our black family. We read magic <br />now we need the spells, to rise up <br />return, destroy, and create. What will be <br /> <br />the sacred words?<br /><br />Imamu Amiri Baraka<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ka-ba/
