The first road block on the way back to my mother's compound.

Did I come from a white man's pen. Am I ink, is that why I shine? Am I a figment of blue eyed imagination, something magical to be conjured

a subject to be pondered or fonduled. Is it that I have no past before your pen?  

No. Me? I know I was writing before you came. My words curving elegantly on the smoke raising dead things from the ash.

Nothing with a seed dies for long.

A people with a past have a future. 

Me, i know, melanin no be ink.