To the Diaspora

by Gwendolyn Brooks

When you set out for Afrika
you did not know you were
going.

Because
you did not know you were
Afrika.

You did not know the Black
continent
that had to be reached
was you.

I could not have told you then
that some sun
would come,
somewhere over the road,
would come evoking the
diamonds
of you, the Black continent–
somewhere over the road.
You would not have believed
my mouth.

When I told you, meeting you
somewhere close
to the heat and youth of the
road,
liking my loyalty, liking belief,
you smiled and you thanked
me but very little believed me.
Here is some sun. Some.
Now off into the places rough
to reach.

Though dry, though drowsy, all
unwillingly a-wobble,
into the dissonant and
dangerous crescendo.
Your work, that was done, to
be done to be done to be done.

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