“Black is the form of forms, the womb of infinity
out of which all things come/
and to which they in time return. It contains all things
without distinction. In its deep pitch the seed of life begins.
From its dark down comes healing sleep
To its healing sleep consciousness flees pain
From its infinite reach comes the light of day.
Black plague, black list, black Sunday, black market
Beah Richards from her poem, What Then is Black, 1975