“The Voodoo Prophecy” By Maurice Thompson, The Independent
You cannot make me love you with your whine
Of fine repentance. Veil your pallid face
In presence of the shame that mantles mine.
Of the black prophet of the Negro race!
I hate you, and I live to nurse my hate,
Remembering when you plied the slaver's trade
In my dear land.... How patiently I wait
Not far away,
When all your pride shall shrivel up and fade.
Your temples will I break, your fountains fill,
Your cities raze, your fields to deserts turn;
My heathen fires shall shine on every hill,
And wild beasts roam
Where stands your home;
Even the wind your hated dust shall spurn.
I will absorb your very life in me,
And mold you to the shape of my desire;
Back through the cycles of all cruelty,
I will swing you,
And wring you,
And roast you in my passion's hottest fire.
You, North and South; You, East and West,
Shall drink the cup your fathers gave to me;
My back still burns, I bare my bleeding breast,
I set my face,
My limbs I brace,
To make the long, strong fight for mastery.
Full text (Library of Congress/Daniel A.P. Murray Pamphlet Collection)