The Poet

Before I be a slave, I will be dead in my grave
And go home to my maker and be free.

Harriet Tubman: “I was a stranger in a strange land;
I was free and they should be free also.”
The Poet: “Like the North Star, love guides the true revolutionist.”
John Brown: You are a general who led your slave troops through the swamps,
Up the mountains, and across our vast lands.”
Vox Populi: “Go down Moses, let my people go.”
The Poet: My people were brought to the shores of America
Not for the American dream but for the American nightmare.”

For the love of my people,
Once again I crawl through the embers of hell;
Through fleeting storms and the scorching sun,
I carried my precious cargo northward.
With a sky for a roof, leaves for a mattress,
And a gully for an outhouse, we struggled forward.
Our weary bones, aching to see the light,
Struggle through the frigid night.
My train never stalled;
My train never lost a passenger.

Before I be a slave, I will be dead in my grave
And go home to my maker and be free.

Master’s blows dented my forehead.
Master’s whip scarred my back.
Master’s lust raped my body.
Master’s greed sacked my clothes.
Master can steal my body
But master cannot steal me.
For slavery can only chain my bones
But not my spirit.
The gentle breeze of freedom
Shall forever blow through your chains.

Before I be a slave, I will be dead in my grave
And go home to my maker and be free.