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BENEATH THE OLE’ SYCAMO’ TREE In an unkempt place hidden in the backwoods underneath the ‘ole’ Sycamo’ tree lays a remnant of a people whose existence is noted only by weather beaten fragments of splintered wood. Beyond anyone’s watchful care – beneath the over grown decayed debris are the souls of those whose epitaph is scripted by the symbolism of life over on the other side. A ‘no’ named people who once stood feeble before those who detested them for the sole reason of the color of their skin- beckoned by anything other than who they were created to be. A dark-skinned people whose lives were valued less than that old hunting dog licking his colored masters’ wounds. Valued as nothing more than ole’ rags- now rest in the presence of an omnipotent Almighty God their existence is no mystery. Their strength of powerful legacies has been written and seeds of purpose have been sown to give voice of the silence grounded in Him. Powerful witnesses throughout the night who have taken hold to their beliefs and have never looked back can still be heard. The battle cries of their existence can no longer be seen yet, whips across their scarred bloody backs are evidence of forced attendance. I’ll go to that unkempt place hidden in the backwoods underneath the ‘ole’ Sycamo’ tree and shake hands with the elders gone on before. Sit down and feast with the aged mothers exchange songs as our souls look back in wonder how they made it over. Hug on the young ones whose lives were ruled and unjustly taken by a beastly, barbaric people who feared who they could become. Reference each one by given names replacing those weather-beaten fragments of splintered wood with the dignity of acknowledgement. I’d address you by the God given name birth had given you instead of the ones replaced during your painful arrivals. My back powerful from the strength of those legacies left to me are strong enough to bear witness of what once was. In an unkempt place hidden in the backwoods underneath the ‘ole’ Sycamo’ tree lays a remnant of a people….
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