Weep, Beloved Black Brother

[Moorbey]

A poem by Patrice Lumumba

O black man, beast of burden through the centuries,
Your ashes scattered to the winds of heaven,
There was a time when you built burial temples
In which your murderers sleep their final sleep.
Hunted down and tracked, driven from your homes.
Beaten in battles where brute force prevailed.
Barbaric centuries of rape and carnage
That offered you the choice of death or slavery.
You went for refuge to the forest depths,
And other deaths waylaid you, burning fevers,
Jaws of wild beasts, the cold, unholy coils
Of snakes who crushed you gradually to death.
Then came the white man, more clever, tricky, cruel,
He took your gold in trade for shoddy stuff,
He raped your women, made your warriors drunk,
Penned up you sons and daughters on his ships.
The tom-toms hummed through all the villages,
Spreading afar the mourning, the wild grief
At news of exile to a distant land
Where cotton is God and the dollar King.
Condemned to enforced labor, beasts of burden,
Under a burning sun from dawn to dusk,
So that you might forget you are a man
They taught your to sing the praises of their God,
And these hosannas, tuned in to your sorrows,
Gave you the hope of a better world to come.
But in your human heart you only asked
The right to live, your share of happiness.
Beside your fire, your eyes reflect your dreams and suffering,
You sang the chants that gave voice to your blues.
And sometimes to your joys, when sap rose in the trees
And you danced wildly in the damp of evening.
And out of this sprang forth, magnificent,
Alive and virile, like a bell of brass
Sounding your sorrow, that powerful music,
Jazz, now loved, admired throughout the world,
Compelling the white man to respect,
Announcing in clear loud tones from this time on
This country no longer belongs to him.
And thus you made the brothers of your race
Lift up their heads to see clear, straight ahead
The happy future bearing deliverance.
The banks of a great river in flower with hope
Are yours from this time onward.
The earth and all its riches
Are yours from this time onward.
The blazing sun in the colorless sky
Dissolves our sorrow in a wave of warmth.
Its burning rays will help to dry forever
The flood of tears shed by our ancestors,
Martyrs of the tyranny of the masters.
And on this earth which you will always love
You will make the Congo a nation, happy and free,
In the very heart of vast Black Africa.

[Nefertiti]

Special... we shall never forget! thats worth copying and hanging up

[JAH - GREEN]

I really love the poem. In fact, since the dirt of the past is highlighted here it's easier to be sure of what to clean up (b/cuz of confusion). Yep, cleaning can seem like an ordeal sometimes but it's not healthy not to do it : and for hygene of soul and for mental nourishing. If blocked, pierce your will thru...and never forget to justify yourself for the evidence of the evidence shows TRUTH double and disables any mind corruption. The evildoer'll die of incomfort//

Think twice in knowing the second thinking's your soulmate's...


p.s : Once you radiate, they'll close their eyes and perceive the hell their into, trying to get out...or not

And, being a Congolese myself, I intimately rejoice an aimed wish as making Congo One (lol) !! Peace and blessing to sir Lumumba.

[Sourakhata]

BUMP THIS...!!