(From the perspective of slave)
They call it war—this clash of states,
But long before, I knew its weight.
Not blue or gray, but black and bound,
My body sold, my soul unfound.
No flag I raised, no drum I beat,
Just fields that burned beneath my feet.
They fought for land, for pride, for law—
I fought for breath, for worth, for awe.
The whip knew me by name each day,
And still I worked, with no repay.
I bore their sons, I bore their scorn,
I wept for children never born.
They spoke of rights, of liberty,
While tightening iron over me.
They built their wealth upon my skin,
Then asked what crime lay deep within.
I heard the cannons from the trees,
And dared to think they might mean me.
Could blood undo what greed had done?
Could war restore the stolen sun?
When soldiers came, they looked away,
As if my life could wait a day.
Freedom was inked in mighty halls,
But not within these cabin walls.
Still, I have hope—a stubborn seed—
That truth will rise from every need.
That those who walked with backs bent low
Might stand, might speak, might one day know—
That we were never less than man,
Not beast, not tool, not lesser than.
And though the war may end with peace,
Only justice brings release.
No comments:
Post a Comment