Another brown body
hits the dust, / and our cries
dance,

May you always see a wince of fear in your youngest son's face when you knot his tie.

My black is a story of night and day.
My black is a story of mud and clay.

The hood be eating everything / alive

We know revolution is a thorn studded fruit tree fenced in barbed wire painted to look like roses.

The room becomes a red flag, / a bloody mist silhouette / of all my ghosts.