The Poet

The Poet

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Freed At Last? by Ronald S Porter ©2017

We never fled across desert, yet
wandered a hostile desolate land.
We moved no stone to erect 
monuments to tower o'er hot sand.
Yet, we poured sweat, tears and blood
into black earth from sun to sun,
never to prosper from crops grown.
We had no names; we owned no field;
not one thing to call our own.
Oh! Pharoah's army ne'er pursued, 

When word came Let My people go!
There was no home to return to, so
we lingered in that hostile place;
life was hard, the people mean.
Gone were the old cold iron chains;
replaced by shackles of links unseen
Still we cry, we sweat we bleed.
And the very ones who parented our pain
ask what have you for which to complain?

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