I had a dream, about her past,
Those hard drawn days, she wished away,
Amongst the thorn, that cut her flesh,
The pain and insults, she called her own.
The year is old, too old to remember,
Equality a whisper, men dare not raise,
She stayed at home, owned by masters,
Raped and black, ashamed of that.
She worked the fields, collecting much cotton,
The hot day’s sun, sweating not fun,
The swell on her hands, blisters and blood,
Haunted by horrors, living in terror.
It wasn’t her fault, she told her spirit,
This wasn’t her world, the cruelty seems hell,
Each day a battle, each night much struggle,
Praying all night, chained in darkness.
He took this photo, her owner on earth,
Dressed her in plain, hungry and vein,
She lowered her head, hiding her tears,
Wishing for death, longing for help.
By Julius Fa