The blue in black is that sad void that echoes that something is missing. Maybe black is less and definitely not blessed. History tells of it, the future predicts it. The nagging insinuation that poverty is a black man's disease and sickness is his bed of straws. Billie Holiday sang of strange fruits, but maybe they still hang on trees in minds of a dark continent's complexities. It's sad and it's blue because many see it as true. It's sad and true. But it's true: the blue in black is true.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem