The New World
The salty sweat from their brown skin fertilizes the fresh soil.
Their calloused hands are now damaged beyond recognition.
Their fingerprints, like their names have been erased.
They all look the same, no matter the gender or age,
sore, tired, and uncertain.
They pick cotton while praying for a freedom that they will never see
and for the ones that will, not the kind they envisioned.
They sing hymns of God’s glory
that they only see through their survival.
But as the busted leather whips tear into their blistered backs,
the beautiful face of hope begins to scar.
They are the victims of the New World,
but their anguish still lingers into the 21st Century.
These are the faces that I have inherited,
the hoarse voices crying out beyond the grave that have yet to be heard.
They are my tears, my flesh and blood,