If my homeland is coloured...

my homeland has colour.

I’m not aware of any other land

where such beauty can be found

in the coloured syncope

of a late afternoon…

t’is still to be fated

such a snow-covered moonlight

which could spill so much milk

in nights of a full moon…

over my bronzed body,

over my soul clear as snow,

all over my homeland of such beauty,

intoxicating orgies of colour.

- if my homeland is coloured!...

in the bleeding wound

of the endless deep-red wildfire,

burning inside me,

and in the past darkness

of certain moonless nights;

and with the fire out

in the scintillating beacon

of the Vessel,

where my Race

was crucified,

- my homeland has colour!

in the sweetest fruits,

in the vast waters,

in the ploughed fields,

in the indigo skies,

in the bodies so dark

of black men

of black women,

in the little trembling stars,

- tears of God

shed by innocent negroes

there are sweet tones

mysteries

softness,

fascinating shades

of colour

- if my homeland is coloured!...

Flag

we’re a set aside people

spurned

misconstrued

a people which fought and was defeated.

therefore, in my psalm,

I cry out and propose, negro,

that our flag

be a black cloak,

dark as the night without moonlight...

over such darkness of mourning and grief,

of our colour,

write, my brother,

with your rough, hesitant yet strong hand

the word of strength:

                                 unity!

then trace, unwaveringly

these primary, edifying

words:

work, enlightenment, education.

and in golden, splendid letters

(with now a firmer hand)

write, negro:

civilisation, progress, wealth.

in rose-tinted characters

outline with affection

the key-word of life:

                               love!

in white letters

draw with affection

the sublime word:

                            peace!

then

in bright red

in blood-red,

with ink made out of crushed black bodies,

in battles that we’re still to fight,

in bright-red,

the colour of our blood

ground and mixed with bloody tears,

the tears shed by slaves,

write, negro, firm and confident,

each letter a block capital,

the supreme word

(eternal, noble ideal

of the troubled mankind,

for which it’s been fighting and suffering)

write, negro,

write, brother,

the supreme word:

                          FREEDOM

around these lever-words

sow stars aplenty

each of them glowing

all of them immeasurable,

the perfect stars of our hope

the beautiful stars of our faith

stars that are sure to be found on our FLAG.

Tiny Star

players, come and play

marimbas, n’gomas, kissanges

come and summon our people

to the shores of the great Sea!

be seated and listen, brothers:

we need to understand

how Nature speaks to us,

telling of our pain,

crying our sadness.

now listen, my brothers:

that sun setting,

red as ember

it’s not merely sun. No!

it’s a clot of the blood

spilt from Angolans

that made Brazil!

listen to the sea, how it cries,

listen to the sea, how it prays...

behold the oncoming night,

black velvet woven

from a thousand shreds of skin

pulled by whip,

oh! Tore by whip,

from the back of our people,

when slavery reigned...

night is mourning

of which God covers the world

with mercy for us...

  

silver ring alight

rises lightly in space.

be aware that the glowing moon

contains frozen tears

by poor negroes cried...

the crowd, sitting by the sea,

then asks me:

- now tell us, brother,

that pale star

shining in the sky

so little and humble,

what’s its meaning?

perhaps it’s God

finally gazing over our people...