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In an unkept place beyond anyone's watchful care lay vessels which carried the powerful blood of a forgotten people.

So strong and powerful, their very presence brought fear and panic to an entire race of people who believe dominance is theirs.

Underneath the 'ole' shade tree lay weather beaten slats of wood proof of a cultures existence.

A dark skinned people whose lives were valued less than that old hunting dog licking his colored masters wounds.

No names, memories, or accomplishments nothing at all except dated brittle epitaphs marking their era of life.

Dusty black Hebrew Israelite feet and cracked aged hands lay in those hallowed tombs-their names mattered to no one.

Shoeless black feet trod and stood in places I have never known and will never see yet, their strength is who I am.

Their proof of toiling in cotton fields beneath the scorching sun washing white folks cloths hanging them on the line to dry.

Same precious hands held offspring not their image that suckled the rich milk from the breast of the woman in the unkept dark place.

Let's not forget the shoulders which rocked the weight of misses churin' to sleep as if they were her own.

The unkept places off the beaten path lay the blood of the forgotten dark people.

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