The diaspora is familiar —
even when unfamiliar by personal name.
From north, south, east, west then back again —
a mothers tongue will be heard.
Our love language — is Black.
The nod breaks through every false border between us,
we see each others eyes dance — in the presence of home.
Unspoken bonds remain,
detailed in intricate fibres delicately laced.
Appropriation can not replicate.
Gentrification can not replace.
That which has been woven
by the Universe — long before Adam met Eve.
We. Can never be undone by wicked ways.
Thieves will be frozen and shattered in place.
Our north, is a lighthouse —
that is the Black star.