A Requiem For Hands Free At Last

A REQUIEM FOR HANDS FREE AT LAST “Oh death where is thy sting; Oh grave where is thy victory?” Death’s stinging victory is alive and well in this land of Black America— My country’s tears from you and me swelling rivers of flowing grief—self evidence that the only democracy Blacks will see is in the equanimity of death—Death, the common denominator ensuring freedom at last in the streets of home. Where we were once invisible, today it’s only our hands— Hands no longer to rock cradles Stilled in juxtaposition to the graves of those indeed free at last; hands no longer to embrace in giving hugs of love— Hands no longer to clasp in prayers of thanksgiving. Now we must ever ponder taking care in what we wish in question as we sojourn the streets of life in the home of the brave and the land of the free. “Give me liberty or give me death…” has gained a pre-ordained response: Affirmative in the ‘or’—Assuring freedom at last—Death makes no distinctions—At least hands-wise.