i look back at uncle willie, crippled, black, poor, unexposed to the worlds of great ideas, who left for our generation and generations to come a legacy so rich. so i wrote a song for miss roberta flack. you may have heard it. it says: willie was a man without fame hardly anybody knew his name. crippled and limping, always walking lame, he said, "i keep on movin', movin' just the same." solitude was the climate in his head emptiness was the partner in his bed, pain echoed in the steps of his tread, he said, "i keep on followin' where the others led." i may cry and i will die, but my spirit is the soul of every spring, watch for me and you will see that i'm present in the songs that children sing. people called him "uncle," "boy" and "hey," said, "you can't live through this another day." and then they waited to hear what he would say. he said, "i'm living in the games that children play. "you may enter my sleep, people my dreams, threaten my early morning's ease, but i keep comin', i'm followin', i'm laughin', i'm cryin', i'm certain as a summer breeze. "look for me, ask for me, my s