When I think of my people's history
I think of the years spent in captivity
I think of the wasted creativity
The torture, the pain, the agony.
I think of how they worked from sunup to sundown
With sweat streaming down
I think of the dreams and desires that lie in unkempt graves.
I think of the souls no one was able to save.
I think of a people's unheard cries
I think of those forced to watch as others died.
I think of the stripes that ripped the backs of young and old alike.
I think of those lost under the cover of night.
I think of damaged spirits, unspoken words,
And blocked determinations
I think of the cost to a nation
I think of a people who didn't know how to be free
Once they were set free
Then, I know the price exacted by slavery.
Copyright P. Newman-Harris