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The children whose skin was brown
Had no choice in how they lived
Taken at a young age to serve a man
Who took all they had as though was a gift

Both young lads as well as girls
Were made slaves of the white man
The girls were made to cook andi clean
Then used as a bed warming pan

Virgins before they were sold
Now no longer, just playthings
They were soiled and re-used
What a future this poor child will bring

Years of being a no one
Married off to an older servant
Who needed a woman in his cabin
To cook clean and keep him warm at night.

Many who spoke out about slavery
Found it was too lucrative a sport
For man to even consider banning it, 
even royalty financed slave ships port to port

Yet always there was hope
Kept the flame of life alive
Many started speaking out about slavery
The future unrolled before their eyes.

Not before the girls had children
Born into slavery, belonged to a man
Who could keep or sell you
Whenever the mood took him.

Why didn’t the leaders of the top countries
Combine a voice and shout out loud
Stop slavery these people aren’t animals
I am sure given time they would be heard.

They were, too late for so many
Who lived a life that was absurd
Now all men are free
Hmmm was that a snicker I heard

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The poet whose work I loved to read
is Frances Ellen Watkins Harper ( 1825 - 1911)
the particular poem i chose is called 

The Slave Auction

The sale began—young girls were there,   
   Defenseless in their wretchedness,
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair   
   Revealed their anguish and distress.

And mothers stood, with streaming eyes,
   And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
   While tyrants bartered them for gold.

And woman, with her love and truth—
   For these in sable forms may dwell—
Gazed on the husband of her youth,
   With anguish none may paint or tell.

And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
   The impress of their Maker’s hand,
And frail and shrinking children too,
   Were gathered in that mournful band.

Ye who have laid your loved to rest,
   And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
   Whose loved are rudely torn away.

Ye may not know how desolate
   Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
   Will press the life-drops from the heart.
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