Clay

The drum. The drum. The drum of pounding feet. Bodies. Bodies. Thousands swarm the street. But listen! Listen! Hear no angry shout foretold. These men, these women, they come to change the mold. The clay had been white, too long the same. Colors believed at fault, were always given blame. Only ivory itself could stand, a game very cruel. Simply one, one shade, could reign and rule. The Land of the Free! A lie to be sure. Till finally the colors broke loose, proven pure. They mixed with white clay, now part of the mold. But alas, the affection would soon grow cold. Pushed away without a thought These brilliant hues not treated as ought. Separated and scorned, seen on the outside. Talents and giftings never even tried. Violence – there could be none. What then? What could be done? A march. Led by a simple King. Who told the world how he’d “Dreamed a Dream”. Eyes were opened, and value was seen. Now, now, freedom can ring! This place where much beautiful clay was sold Now welcomes all colors into the mold. Ask yourself this, reach deep inside. Do you always reach out, with arms wide To the many shades that fill this land? Or merely, like many, close your hands?