They call my people children of the night, because even bound hand and foot in misery, Our blood is that of rivers, flowing freely from deep within,
and midnight shines in our eyes, for we have seen our own worth,
even when few would look upon our struggle.
they call us dark, for they think our bodies offer no compromise: we are many shades of identity but as deep as our souls may lie within,
Our secrets are not hidden.and some are scared to admit that my people are the descendants of dawn.warm as sun baked earth,with roots burrowed into the skin of the world,we are the teak and ebony trees,
keeping ourselves grounded while standing above the clouds.
my people are the spirits of illumination,for even when we are held captive, hope is our minds’ freedom,because we have always lived in the light,shining so brightly that some can only stand to look at our shadows and call us less. yes, these are my people,and their blood flows in my veins: some ripped from a homeland I have never seen,
Do we no longer understand that memory is a desert of the soul,
And time is the oasis?
If you can hear ,Please listen! for though I use the voice of a nation,
I speak from the mouth of the lower classed so that this truth may be remembered: Whatever lines were drawn in the sand,
If we take the first step now, After a thousand tomorrows they will be washed away, And when that time comes,Our people will not be forgotten