Forced to work in silence,
Broken only by cracks of whips
Cries of pain.
His ebony back slowly cripples,
As he is forced to collect the white man’s gold.
When the sky turns pink,
He takes refuge in his quarters,
Listening as warm wind howls throughout the night.
His soul begs for freedom,
But his mind knows better.
Haunted by the scars on his back.
Warm air covers the man who owns no blankets,
Lulling him to sleep
Dreams illuminate inside his mind,
He sees the unimaginable.
The oppressed walking amongst the oppressors.
Soon he saw no difference
No oppressed, no oppressors,
Just people.
Awaking confused,
The idea was far from nominal.
Sadly, the man never had that dream again.
But, would it always be just a dream?