Eyes red from Westerner's work will cry old, African tears, Tearing, from tarried Indian soil, The Great Lakes from which sprang harvest, laughter and gold. Circling the wrinkles about a chapped mouth They will then fall into the palms of white-capped chieftains in some world flesh cannot see Until wetlands spread through my cold, midwestern heart. Michael Bolton's bastardizations of 60's soul classics, as broadcasted through the workplace, will wane As the fount of song to not be sold gushes from lungs newly nurtured. Dance will dive into malnourished muscle Chants will ring from a jaw uncleaned of curses. The blackness through which adult behavior was first viewed will wash over the mud of much damage Re-examined manhood seen through First-Time's eyes Correcting remembered criticisms of pearls of ancestral knowledge, Plucked from the ethers and prematurely spoken to the Kool cigarette-smokin. My heart will strangely recall a love never felt from My own blood, Yellow elder smiles that will not let me go Spirit behind that tree Ancestor atop that cloud moving her seat aside for some of the Sun to show me why She just can't wait to return to all I see: Spread about as the magic of a million forms glowing From First black mud Radiant with first purpose Rolling in Ritual so old that I merely meet it midway With words. I will never leave there. In leopard skins I will sit before braided sons and baffled daughters Stroking a pharaonic beard and recounting the illusion our people called "Western Life" and let out a cracking laughter, Reclined on the skinned hides of my animal urges, Having become that which I once beheld in disbelief: Walking ancestor.