I was alone.
The swirling of the night
Beat upon me
Like a hurricane of silence.
In a moment of
Gravel rythym and humid goosbump response,
I was startled by the apparition
Of a blurry, distorted
Baptismal caravan of ankle-chained slaves
Singing the words to some spiritual
Born from the labor pains of oppression.
As one ghostly, glistening figure
Stopped to look me in the eye
I realized, our past never dies
But lives forever on this land,
In between the trees and fields
And baptismal rivers
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