By the Harlem River we sit and weep.
By the South Negril River we sit and weep.
By the River Mantua we sit and weep.
By the Mississippi River we sit and weep.
By the Volta River we sit and weep.
By the Nile River we sit and weep.
Our silent tears can not erase the pain-filled years.
These tears fell on the riverbank’s soil and fertilized it,
from this soil grows hopes and dreams that must be harvested by future generations.
We wept not only for what was lost but for what will never be.
Our melancholy can not be seen through stonewashed saginn’ jeans.
Our depressed affects painted with the finest Pink Friday MAC lipstick.
The joker and clown always wept the loudest when alone.
Our home is abandoned and the finest have been carried away in chain-gangs.
We serve and protect a king not our own for a few crumbs from the royal table,
“Look at us now we getting paper.”
Exiled to a stolen land,
we feel as if the divine mother has let go of our hand.
We wept, but many have forgotten why.
We wept, we yell, we cry, but many think our pain is an inconvenient lie.