We planted songs
In cotton fields
Backs bent down
On our toes, our heels
Our voices prayed
When we could not
We planted songs on sacred ground.
Hope sprang from the callus on our thumbs
Watched as Massa sold our sons
Packed up freedom in the Mississippi dirt
Moved up North where pain wasnβt hurt
Silly us, couldnβt let it be
Thought strange fruit only grew on Southern Trees
Traded our crowns
In for concrete
Stopped growing our food
To buy our meat
Insects we traded for rats
Gave up the land
For the projects
Community tight, though enslaved we were
Gave up the land
To call him sir
He was after all, βThe Manβ
Suited and booted
like nobody can
But all that glitter, ainβt gold
Just because you donβt see chains
Donβt mean you ainβt sold
Stay true to yourself
Your history, your roots
Let no one come along
And steal your truth
Pay attention to whatβs real
Whatβs sound
And keep your feet rooted
On sacred ground.
Reblogged this on firefly465.
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Thanks for sharing! π
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My pleasure, Yecheilyah. π
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Loved this!
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Awesome π
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Love this poem! So good. Great job! π
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Thank you π
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Beautiful EC π
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Thanks π
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π
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