You landed here at three in the afternoon,
Heralded by an anthem of gunshots and fire.
You landed here in the heat of the moment,
When blood had turned to fire,
And tears to iron.
You landed here because of the ballot,
To make sure we swallowed the bullet
You had melted down with flame
You landed in the midst of the revolution,
Yielding cold steel as banners
And wearing white cloth as armour
You landed in response to the cries of the lost souls,
The black souls
Still yearning for that last homegoing
You landed just as my brush stopped sticking
And the bodies stopped falling
Over the cracks in the paint
You landed just as the glass kept falling,
Because the veil is crumbling
On a father wailing:
This is for my son
You landed here for America,
The one shackling my bristles in silver
The one that gleams and glitters
And leaves prizes for the ebony Atalanta
Still running her race
You did not land here out of compassion,
In boots gilded in paint
That no longer flows smoothly over
A white canvas
You landed here because my paint is chipping,
Because my brush is breaking
Under the weight of bodies still falling
Cause you haven’t learnt how to let go of
The ballot or stop melting down tears to
Make the bullet
You landed here at three in the afternoon,
Amidst the souls of black folk crying
For that other America and for their homegoing
But stood in silence stifling them with the ballot
And then next the bullet
Despite tomorrow calling
For a new song to be sung
