Song for the old ones

My Fathers sit on benches

their flesh counts every plank

the slats leave dents of darkness

deep in their withered flanks.

They nod like broken candles

all waxed and burnt profound

they say 'It's understanding

that makes the world go round.'

There in those pleated faces

I see the auction block

the chains and slavery's coffles

the whip and lash and stock.

My Fathers speak in voices

that shred my fact and sound

they say 'It's our submission

that makes the world go round.'

They used the finest cunning

their naked wits and wiles

the lowly Uncle Tomming

and Aunt Jemima's smiles.

They've laughed to shield their crying

then shuffled through their dreams

and stepped 'n' fetched a country

to write the blues with screams.

I understand their meaning

it could and did derive

from living on the edge of death

They kept my race alive.

Maya Angelou

Song for the old ones