Village Cry

I am living under the dread

of the confederate flag.

In my heart I know. . .

 

I am taller than plantation pillars.

I am taller than academic towers.

I am taller than the confederate flag flying.

I’ve lasted five-hundred years of slavery

There has been 3 Generations separating me

from this grip. Count them 1-2-3

Five Generations of uneducated misery

between me and my resilient ancestors.

Their wilted souls like broken bones

provide the blood in the red soil I sojourn on.

 

I look back.

I don’t see no trail-blazed in glory

just blood soaked cotton.

They tell me roots are lovely.

How would I know?

I can’t touch them.

I can’t hold them.

I can’t see them.

I’ve only held them in my mystical hand.

I’ve seen how they shrivel and shrink, when

ripped

from familiar soil.

I’ve seen how vulnerable they become by air.

They cannot breathe as I cannot breathe.

I look back . . .

I don’t see no trail-blazed in glory

just my last name forced on me by slavery,

R-E-D-M-O-N-D.

Redmond is too fragile to stretch across these

atlantic

waters.

I don’t have no last name neither does any other

African brought to this

american soil.

 

There is nothing affirmative action can repair or

replace

in thirty

years.

Count them!

Five Generations of blood soaked cotton!

 

The new south cannot stand on the pillars of the

old

south.

We can dress her up with Magnolias, Camellias

Honeysuckle vines.

 

Blood soaked cotton lets out a stench.

I will not close my eyes to it.

I will not go gently.

I will do as Dylan Thomas says.

I will rage.

I will rage.

I will rage.

 

The berlin wall toppled

as did USSR,

apartheid did too.

This flag will go down!

 

And, I will be standing Taller . . .

 

Taller than plantation pillars.

Taller than academic towers.

Taller than the confederate flag flying.

 

This flag will go down.

It will be gone with the wind.

There will be no sequel scarlett,

Because, frankly I do give a Damn!