we who come from nothingwhose heirlooms are buriedin mass graves underAfrican skieswe do not hear our grandmother's voiceand cannot kiss her handswhile we sit under trees to praywe come from placeswhere bullets spraythey do not carehe is your brotherthey are not movedby your weepinghold it in and be stillthat is the African waythe world does not pityblack sufferanceour death does not shake themwe are rotting corpses and open woundscharity cases dyingon rich soil whose fruit we do not reapthey wear our blood on their necks and fingersbut how can you not see our soul?it is the thing that keeps usit is the thing we carry