I’m not from that part of the world But I know a few things about them They love their children They mourn their dead Isn’t that enough to know them well?
His mother’s spirit rose through the box and soil It once provided shelter and their annual harvest Every child knows this Because from where they come The world is never lied about, only endured
They know no politics, but long for justice Still a violin sounds sweet as their mother And they know how to dance Lightness all around their feet The air is not as cruel as a man can be
To be common is not a poor man’s burden To speak the truth plainly is his gift But he is also high-minded He has no fear of society And though he is a slave his mind is not
How many generations must suffer purification To become a people they must first bleed together They are the chosen people The ones their tormentors will curse Because the past will remind them of who they are
But how will we come learn of our tangled roots We bury ourselves but fail to see what we share The soil upon which we walk Is for life and for death But what God can raise a man can only bury