Under the shadows of the morning star,
with each end touching the inevitable start;
On a pole that has no pillars.
Rope-less pendulum pulley swing.
Woods and distance water roar,
travel then upon the moor
grassy plain, where worn with misery
clog on the barred patches and whining of a rope-less swing
My name is Shola a-Black; I sow;
a little farm set with thorns of bitter yam and sorrowful-sour vegetable plants,
And ever there the weeping wind; the kind land kept me,
for I thirty, from a little lad
have dwelt thereon, and known both pain and joy.
Life a rope-less pulley swing,
endless try putting out the ocean of tears
and after that the dark plague(death),
when I travelled on; turns again home.
in wings, I hope to see my potter eye to an eye, ask Him
when I leap down the swing.
Why did I drink from the bitter root of slavery?