A Song to my People

I can hear your voices, I can no longer hear all your words

A room filled with aunts and uncles, while children listened and observed 

You spoke of the changing south, and what they truly deserved 

Arguments would rise and fall, but every one was heard

And daddy, you spoke passion’ly, of the good men with which you served. 

It was the sound of a world slowly dying, and another trying to be born 

The words they sounded magical, both English and French Creole 

But could not hide the ugliness, of the story being told 

Memories can be forgotten to serve those in control

I can see your faces, I don’t mean to sound so cold 

But you are still my people, if the truth be truly told 

It was just the sound of a world slowly dying, and another trying to be born 

You are bone of my bone, you are flesh of my flesh

I have reaped the rewards, of all of your success 

There is so much more to our story,  than this song would suggest 

I choose to embrace our history, not cheery pick the best

And use what you have given me, to serve those I’ve oppressed 

I hope to hear the sound of a world slowly dying, while the other is trying to be born 

The apple does not fall, far from the family tree

And that which I criticize in you, I also see in me 

I don’t want to be so arrogant, to think I’m truly free 

I have blood on my hands, I have blood on my knees

I am crawling to that bloody altar, where darkness meets defeat 

Its only the sound of my world, slowly dying, and another trying to be born 

Strange fruit hanging, from the poplar tree

The scent of sweet magnolias, in the southern breeze 

For some times moves on, but for others it can freeze 

It’s only the sight of our world slowly dying, and another trying to be born