Black is what the prisons are,
The stagnant vortex of the hours
Swept into totality,
Creeping in the perjured heart,
Bitter in the vulgar rhyme,
Bitter on the walls;
Black is where the devils dance
With time within
The creviced wall.
In Cuba
a dark skin woman ask me
if I’m from Angola
I try to explain in the no Spanish I know
that I am American
she finds... SPANISH CONVERSATION by E. Ethelbert Miller.
