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__History of My People__ My eyes touch, my fingers trace The griot chants, clicks, songs of the Ancestors The warrior words stretched taut across the soul Drum words whispering the name of God They say that beyond the blood-tide cries There is triumph They say that beyond the blues-moan There is continuance Triumph and continuance A reaching back and a forward surge A place where Black dreams swell consciousness Even as the Niger swell old seasons into new life

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