Sister of Midnight's pitch-black tint
Faithful matriarch of the towering afro
The sands of time bear your never-dying imprint
And in your bounty of wisdom we joyfully wallow;
Like your siblings, you were unjustly caged,
Your words exiled to the depths of your belly;
And the pride you once emitted was cloaked by sorrow
All your pain; you ceremoniously bury,
Exhuming your voice, in rejection of being enslaved,
It kindles confidence that leaves your jailer enraged,
As you chant choruses of your freedom of tomorrow.
Your unselfish gaze could give hope to all who despair
And your sunny smile would provide warmth to those without shelter
No such combination exists for your essence is ever so rare
It can confront the most haunting specter;
In your mien lies an effortless elegance,
That even the most cynical of men becomes uncontrollably trusting;
Cleaving to your words as a suckling to its mother,
Which is skillfully crafted in rhythm and eloquence
With emotions and honesty violently gushing,
Evoking memories of the times when one felt nothing,
Changing intermittently like the British weather.
My respect for you is unwavering
And the works of your hands lay engraved upon my heart
For the bounteous insight that they bring
In times of need provide support;
Like you, we are raped year after year,
And our voices are robbed by each successive government;
And our futures perpetually mortgaged at the expense of metal birds,
But as you have done I shall sing of my freedom with merry cheer
And of my orchestra, I shall appoint myself principal conductor,
For I no longer fear to challenge my oppressor,
As I have been emboldened by your puissant words.
