THE AFRICAN AFFAIR by Bruce M. Wright.

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. Time pirouettes
A crippled orbit in a trance,
And crawls below, beneath the flesh
Where darkness flows;

Black is where the deserts burn,
The Niger and Sassandra flow,
From where the Middle Passage went
Within the Continent of Night
From Cameroon’s to Carisbrooke
And places conscience cannot go;

Black is where thatched temples burn
Incense to carved ebon-wood;
Where traders shaped my father’s pain,
His person and his place,
Among dead statues in a frieze,
In the spectrum of his race…

Reference:
Bruce M. Wright