Dead Crow In Ebony Hands

To the fathers of the laws that sought to chain the night, 
Harken to my heavy words 

There he goes a flappin' like vulture
Stealing our ways, and feedin' on culture
Black culture that is!

Sweetest bird to ivory hands, is a general, a ploy
For all their plans.
But only in the ivory hands.

Black hands that play the bluest tones
That molded the oldest streams with bones
Hunt the crow like a wild crow
A deadly crow that is!

And when the hands like night shoot gunfire 
There he goes a'fallin' like fire
From Heaven, from God who broke the same chains
Who gave the black man no name

The man who wears the night all day claims his prize
As the dead crow lay asleep, entombed for ever more
So that the night can live free. 

This poem is about: 
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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