Will I reach the shores, O ancestors?
The moon rules the day
In a century that knows no eclipse.
I wail beneath her light,
Where we once sat and dined.
Her glow now consumes me,
Her ray burns beneath the sea.
Will I reach those shores, ancestors?
Voices have become our only eyes,
My standard as a man bears no shackles,
But my blood boils, crawling to the shore
Under the shining smile of the moon.
Will my ink reach that country?
Where minds behold what eyes cannot,
Will it find that country?
Where tribes and tongues are no emblem?
“It has fallen apart,” the Father foretold,
Yet can I still make the crossing,
Crawling toward the shore
While the smiths still forge my chains?
