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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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 ---------------------------------------------------- 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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