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.