About this author: Carol Williams Curtis was born in Oakland, California on January 18, 1945. This poem was borne out of watching a documentary about the African Burial Grounds in New York. It described the remains of some of the people buried there. There were little children, and a young man whose teeth were carved in a style indicating that he was probably a royal prince. He was shot in the back. This told me that perhaps these individuals were newly captured and had resisted their status as slaves. In a strange country, among strange people, they knew who they were.

Done

by Carol Williams Curtis
January 2006

Up from dusty graves our slaughtered ancestors speak.
They are not dead they cannot sleep.

For, their struggle is not over, and the battle is not won. We have gained the prize and lost our purpose. Their work is not yet done.

Up from dusty graves our stolen ancestors speak, they are not dead they do not sleep. Two hundred million souls rest in the watery deep. They left to us a charge to keep.

No they are not dead they dare not sleep.

We are trying so very hard to "Be", we have lost the way and our children do not see.

For assimilation has not improved our identification, we are still black, and our children perish in the streets needlessly.

Up from dusty graves our slaughtered ancestors speak.
They are not dead
they will not sleep.

Their lessons go unlearned, our history is incomplete, they know of our present self induced bondage and they weep, they weep, and they weep.

No they are not dead they cannot sleep.