Strange Fruit
Tears wet at the tip of his chin
Dried, from the wind, on his exposed cheeks
Fresh scent of strange fruit filled the clouds
Which overcast the band that played mournful music with their walk
That sung sorrow hymns with their prayers
Woe voices traveling through the steel bars from the mouths of innocent sexes
Voices shuffled through the beaten bodies,
Terrorized by the pale hand that held the leash of a brainwashed dog, taught to execute our heritage
Burning sun, cooking the flesh of a man, causing the smoke smell similar to the burnt smell of the four baby girls, whose bodies were modified by hatred and fire, bricks and inequality
They metaphorically lynched Cynthia Wesley, Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, and Denise McNair
They lynched the quiet ones, the blessed ones, the powerful ones, the trust of our race
Don't let them lynch our generation
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