You like the burning wood, Elmina in the morning.

Charred hands offering easy winds that sweep to shore

 a promise of not being foreign-born anymore.

Whitewash the harbor walls,

age some more the tomb-lined hallways.

Hallow the rocks in captive’s cove,

the night the continent froze stiff.

My black is still a virtue, home is still away from you.

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    -poetry by Kae Sun
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