From a far away land he was brought in chains
In a dark hole of a black ship he was sold for gains.
His life belonged to another,
And to the highest bidder he was sold to his keeper’s brother.
He worked from first light to past the setting sun
And then did more until the work was done.
Six days a week, with rest on one
He toiled at hard labor under the scorch of the sun.
The crack of a whip
Brought no words from his lips
He just looked down
And worked without a sound.
For his labors he received not a cent,
He did and went where he was sent.
A crude shelter he called his home
Worn clothes were all that covered his bones.
Of family he was not allowed any
And friends, truly there were not very many.
When his life was ended in a rude bed he was laid,
And his worn body then placed in an unmarked grave.
Copyright © Richard Moriarty