"The Voice Of The Oppressed"


Anacleto Olo Mibuy

My poems will be read one day,

under my trees,

without roofs or airbrushing,

It will be the old lady snuggled

with her basket of illiterate memories.

They will read the feigned trees

of unrighteous dead,

and the earth will move, thickening

the melancholy of a new sun.

In the tombs they will rise,

skeletons of invisible blacks

sitting in her bank of condemned.

Then my poetry will accuse,

will put in each mouth of bone, the sentence

and the macabre whip of penance.

All the dead will rise

and the crippled orphans of misery;

some crushed paper finger

will point out among the living in the story

the assassin of Liberty.

There you will read my funeral poetry,

and my lines of cruel Freedom,

will sing the buried deeds

in each flower and in each tree.

Dead and alive with a scratched heart

of any black injustice,

my poems will call the resurrection

with the voice of those who did not have it,

with the voice of the oppressed.


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