By Jofre Rocha

Empty-Handed

I come back with empty hands.
Only in my eyes do I keep the dream.

Inside me
I carry bitter memories
of what we call the human kind.

I come back with empty hands,
yet I return rich with gifts
for all of you, comrades.

This is my freedman’s baggage—
here it is:
a fistful of loose pages
holding my sad verses,
salted with hunger
and the taste of the sea.

I come back with empty hands,
my only luggage these sad poems.
But for you, comrades,
I bring an open chest
for the weight of our shared suffering.
I bring open arms
for the solidarity of an embrace.

I return empty-handed—
empty-handed, yes, comrades—
but in my eyes
I still carry the dream.

by Alda Lara

Forward

It is time, my friend.
Let us walk.

Far off, the Earth is calling us,
and no one can refuse
the voice of the Earth.

On it,
the same burning sun scorched us,
the same sorrowful moon laid its hand upon us,
and if you are Black and I am white,
the same Earth brought us forth.

Come, my friend.
It is time.

Let my heart open
to the ache of your sorrows
and to the joy of your joys,
brother.
Let my white hands reach out
to clasp with love
your long Black hands.
Let my sweat join yours
when we cut new paths
toward a better world.

Come—
another ocean is stirring within us.
Do you hear it?
It is the Earth calling us.

It is time, my friend.
Let us walk.

Both translations by Diniz Borges