Droplets run down my forehead
Blinding me.
My thoughts race through my mind
Looking for an opportunity to run.
I hear running feet.
Not of human though
Of pain.
It is everyday
The whip cracks on our backs.
Bringing forth our dark blood.
Lighter than our skin.
Who is our persecutor?
The very thing we cannot change
The white men know no better.
They have only instinct to live by.
But we, oh we
We have passion.
Hidden inside our oppressed selves.
We are slaves
Though they say we are free.

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