Beyond the threshold of this door whispers the sea,
and this slave house answers through the carvings
imprinted in the stone foundation, where crashing sea foam reaches its peak.
Last night, I came to acknowledge that we may die as slaves,
and, like our ancestors, will join the ethereal ranks of our ancestral spirit.
Tonight, I raise my chains in farewell and cast my eyes on the Atlantic waters.

We death march to the demon ship; I pray that God troubles the waters
and takes us to Paradise before we are crushed by the blackened sea.
Every step away from the slave house, takes another sliver of spirit
from me, just as the ocean’s ebb and flow strips away concrete into a carving
that can only be understood by the sons and daughters of slaves.
On that day of understanding, our generations will stand on liberation’s peak

but for now, all we can do is remain silent and peek
through the cracks between jambs caused by frigid waters,
reminding ourselves that our children will not be slaves;
they will be masters of the land, air, and sea;
they will be skillful architects and sculptors who carve
out the hearts of stone and usher in a new spirit.

I look at my son in chains next to his mother and he hasn’t lost his spirit,
but I am on the brink of losing my sanity; I’m piqued
by the slave master’s bloody and merciless carvings
on my brother’s back and legs; the only healer is holy water.
I pray that the god of my mother and father engulfs us beneath the abyss of sea
to end this cursed life of pain and sacrifice as the devil’s slaves.

It is better to be drowned as a saint than to be sold into slavery;
they’ll beat, whip, and rape us until there is only a faint wisp of spirit;
they’ll beat, whip, rape and bag us first before throwing us back to sea;
they’ll beat, whip, and curse us for seeking God on the mountain’s peak;
they’ll beat, whip, and kill us, but it will not stop us from reaching the water;
our return is cemented on the stone in Dakar where the ocean meets the carving.

At our land’s edge, there is a divine carving
that tells a story about twelve million slaves—
slaves whose skin and strength are forged by water,
slaves whose prayers are delivered by the Spirit,
slaves whose visions and dreams are cast at the peak
of moonrise over a somber sea.

There is a sunrise at the edge of sea, carving
mountain peaks over the eastern coast of a new
land where slaves will find that at land’s edge,
a spirit is ready to lead us to new territory
away from the water.