The lights of the city glide within me 

but do not pierce through me with their glitter

deep in me there still persists the black depths

of the black history i hear singing

I have heard of blood that ran in torrents

and of the whip that cracked a thousand tims,

of the white man who stood guard on the slaves,

sparks in his eyes and thunder in his voice.

We here are the children of a dense night

which is shattered in place by srange cris rages

supposed for many hundred years

today are globules of our own red blood.

On wonderful things, oh cities of light

your lights  do not keep company with me 

within me there still rmains the black bass

of the black history. I hear singing.

                           BY:Rena Boodram