I watched over Ceasollie
in convict stripes
as he worked the road
and sang his songs
soft and meek and beautiful.
I watched him by day
and I drank quietly at home
as careful white men do
and never stood on tables
nor sang in all night cafes.
I watched over Ceasollie
in jail for being poor
and boisterous
and black.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem