Bounded to the chains of hate,
with pure rust decaying the black skin.
Loaded like black herds discarded to death,
they seem not to underlay the misery.
They seem not to be in the right century
because, the white images they see are like dreams.
” It is not happening” they lament as they look.
Through their deep sorrowful eyes they could be read like a book.
They wonder where they were located at.
They shiver for the big bowl as they sat,
Clustered like dead sardines they stink deeply.
Thick air filled with scents of dishonor mingled with dirts
and sweats like neighbors of the minor,
as they also enjoy sounded leathered whips on
their glittering black skin tearing it to dices.
Undeterred, they die and get thrown to the fishes
but makes no difference to their health because,
the air they breathe in nourishes with diseases.
As the survivors step into the land they call strange,
they all stagger because, they refused the feet of rage.
Their black skin begins to fade off in the sun shine
giving way to the glittering scars lined up like the whites dine.
Oh, the black mountains pleaded to God for wisdom,
and the Mediterranean breeze blows tears for freedom.
It was a history that the after effect will never be forgotten.
It was a century of grief and inhumanity.
Yes, the black hearts still beats on the rusted sounds of slavery.