There will be a black God someday
To come up from the dirt of our wanting
And It shall give the green plowing hands
To an earth God long forgotten in the
Seedling of a wayward sky.
We shall nurse at the breast of Its trees,
Feeding on the milk of Its superfetation
To be born again in the waves of Its flirtations.
We shall find that It dose not need
A far off heaven of disbeliefs clothed
In the remnant of an ancient culture
Long dead where the black book of
The epistle of walking forward have lost its motion.
She shall be the He of the universes with her hands full
Of ancestors bidding on prayers to fore fill our needs
While they study the war of disbeliefs thrown at them
By hands full of the predatorial notions of other gods
It shall be darker then night but speckle with life.
Some day there will come a black God plowing the field
Of our umbilical emotions cut off in a time of deportation
To a distant land where we have forgotten that we ever knew Gods as dark as ourselves.
We shall find in Its forest of hair a home
It shall heal with the hands of Nakayima beneath her tree and scar our faces with the art of her body and
Cause us to sing at the joyous passing into the world of the dead of her belly.
It shall never come to an end, any where, any time
Its present will be as the winds of our longings, as the gynecoid green is to the leaf.
The ocean shall be Its tears of life, the albumen air Its breath