(A poem by Assata Shakur)
Watch, the grass is growing.
Watch, but don't make it obvious.
Let your eyes roam casually, but watch! In any prison yard, you can see it - growing.
In the cracks, in the crevices, between the steel and the concrete,
out of the dead gray dust,
the bravest blades of grass shoot up,
Watch. the grass is growing.
It is growing through the cracks.
The guards say grass is against the Law.
Grass is contraband in prison.
The guards say that the grass is insolent.
It is uppity grass, radical grass, militant grass, terrorist grass, they call it weeds.
Nasty weeds, nigga weeds, dirty, spic, savage indian, wetback, pinko, commie weeds - subversive! And so the guards try to wipe out the grass.
They yank it from its roots. They poison it with drugs. They maul it, They rake it.
Blades of grass have been found hanging in cells,
covered with bruises. "apparent suicides"
The guards say that the GRASS IS UNAUTHORIZED DO NOT LET THE GRASS GROW.
You can spy on the grass. You can lock up the grass.
You can mow it down, temporarily.
But you will never keep it from growing.
Watch, the grass is beautiful.
The guards try to mow it down, but it keeps on growing.
The grass grows into a poem.
The grass grows into a song. The grass paints itself across the canvas of life.
And the picture is clear and the lyrics are true, and the haunting voices sing so sweet and strong that the people hear the grass from far away.
And the people start to dance, and the people start to sing, and the song is freedom.
Watch, the grass is growing.
Black Panther, BLA soldier, political prisoner, teacher, daughter, mother, sister.
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