Pensile clouds of a new Truth loom.
With them are selected versions of
Extinct grief.

Looking through the yellowness of a
Dog’s eyes, this aura of Truth, pervasive,
Sours my palate.

What say the bulletins and tabloids
In their speech potency?

Have they recoiled on the sudden encroachment
Of stale seas
Or have they rolled out drums for Haley’s ROOTS?

Between Kamby Bolongo of watery essence
And the forested, warm plains of Juffure, ROOTS!

And drums fashion themselves out for Kinte,
Who must tap gently the face of the drum
For earthly summons.

From sinuous, valleysome frontiers backward,
We yodel loud,
Fronting bands of ROOTS.