By Noa Fay.
In a land Overmorrow A golden beam shines
Beside, A rainbow–
With misted, Colored lines.
But such a Land Is not ours–
We bear not The gift of peace
For on our skin Is ebony and onyx, So we cry For our own release.
Our sisters And brothers Shot dead in the streets,
Our mothers And fathers Strung up in the trees.
And with any Inch We gain,
We are drawn Back A mile,
On this soil We cannot laugh Or giggle Or hoot,
Or holler Or smile.
Damaged We are not
But Perhaps misled. For within ourselves We argue
And point fingers– Naming the accused.
How many inches Would we take, If we could all agree?
Maybe one full yard, Maybe our own mile–
Maybe two, Or three.
We may not be Executioner– Or judge Or even jury,
But so long as Justice Is denied We will unleash Our Fury.
Centuries have passed– Against each other We’ve been pitted,
And At last We say no more.
So do not cry And beg for mercy–
Amerikkka has Waged This War.
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