It's no mystery or history that i'm black, 

though through my history i have found that my black is my history,

but why? this will be forever a mystery,

the history of my foreign mother brought here so many years before me 

with nothing but pains of the past and few dreams of the future, 

fed nothing but breads of bitterness...

instead of the bread of hope, 

while making sense of the things that did not 

matter at the time to you or to me, 

but to her? it all mattered,

it all seemed to be the perfect puzzle,

she dreamed a dream while we all stood looking 

with our eyes wide shut,

she longed for her inner peace

 to calm her common affairs of the heart,

 for she was the foreign mother of us all..

even ME, 

you see, freedom was the very thing she craved 

and longed for through herm mind, body & soul,

every inner being of her cried out 

to be released from the bondage of her

once beautiful skin, 

the skin that degraded her pure soul,

oh, 

roses to her soul, 

roses to her brown skin, 

her shield, 

her catalyst of hate,

the very thing that betrayed her, 

but yet stood so close to her heart,

but..

the love she had for it was oh so strong, 

she was willing to go to war for her brown skin,

to stand up for what was right for you, me, and most of all her brown skin,

the brown skin that gave her no peace of mind ...

because she only had a peice of mind,

 carved out through words of bitter hate,

looking through a cloudy mirror for a clean reflection of freedom to look back at her,

looking for her own foreign mother, 

the hand that rocked the cradle 

so many years before her, 

singing the sad simple song...

"freedom o' freedom"