From near the edge of a midnight's dark
poison arrows hunt the meadowlark,
Words still echo through a message stark;
from somewhere far the last two dogs bark.
Like thunder rolling across the plain,
hooves trample over those whom were slain;
Sacred grounds are treated with disdain
when guardians no longer remain.
Distant mountains hold tomorrow's song
that calls to those that hope to belong,
Journeys to there are but for the strong
and those that have learned the right from wrong.
Bluebird's tunes once bade a fond farewell
for some forced to move from whence they dwell,
The will ne'er know for whom tolls the bell;
even less will have stories to tell.
Now no longer stands a rule of thumb
carried by the music which was strum,
The hearts now beat like a broken drum;
to escape you must play deaf and dumb . . .
For the future holds no promised key
to let loose those born of slavery,
Yet trumpets rise from across the sea,
sounding the call to eternity.