Broken Chains

Wrists bruised… Skin torn…
Born to be at the receiving end of a whip.
Shoulders bruised… Back torn…
Rusty chains around my hips, rattle the melody
of the oppress that press on.
Day in and day out. The Sun scorn my darken skin,
cracks of the whips add to the tempo. Grinding us
down to the open flesh. Exposing the roots of our
nation down to the bone.
Ground plowed and field, by our blister-filled hands
spilling our sweat down to the rough dried foreign land.
Branded by scolding iron. The mark of property to another.

We fall into a line so to collapse and rest…
Yet our blood bonds us to be brothers. Holding each other up,
giving us courage to live another day…
We sleep on flee-ridden hay that is leftover of the mules and horses.
Yet we hum as the candle light flickers shadows of our ancestor tribe:
Dancing, singing… Living in the lands of our mothers.
Deep sleep crashes down on this slave lot,
tomorrow another land to plot…
Nevertheless, with this pain, we dream of broken chains…