Hues

Late in the evening when the Magnolia tree stops blowing; The smell of sweat and hate emerges; Sounds of incoherent flour men singing the day's events. Winds of change passed by without a word being spoken; Could the words spoken even be in existence? The voices of change are stamped out by shouts and screams. Twisted and turned with a purpose in mind onward we march; Determined to say more than our ancestors could say; We paused too long. Smart enough to run for the milkman every Saturday; Strong enough to carry a nation on broad shoulders; Still not considered a man. Anguished and knowledge bruised; Bleeding and suffering from amnesia, we falter; Transcended in the moment still too late. Wounded from ignorance and in trepidation; Defeated, but battlefield ready we sang "Amazing Grace"; Like dark people do.