The black is night,
the voodoo heart,
the ocean without sun.
The white moon in black eyes
makes tears move
like constellations.
The skin warms brown
and glides copper,
black as the sundown,
but all are negre.
People apart,
lady women,
boat dwellers,
boys who do with boys,
all are negre.
Negre freedom is the mirror,
the chicory reflection
seen by mulatto eyes,
a second-class image
crying, with an ivory smile,
'Negre...I am negre'.
Copyright (c.) 2009 by Adam Henry Carriere. All Rights Reserved.
