Far spent is the morning on wasted lands
The ground can’t bear their mournful groans
The city streets is an enemy to their silver chains and gold
The belt is tired slack round the waist
Of some privileged few
They would be found with their back
turned to the toiling sun
Their brows soaked with streams of over worked sorrow
Their hands wounded with the dust that bore Adam’s soul
Shillings and Foreign coins
is a smite to the broken warriors
Deep within, they found the money is a mask for freedom
The willingness to forgo the home on the farm, laid on sweetness and sorrow
Harvest is nigh
Work fat your ass
Your be denied a barley and honey
mixed with gypsies for your heart
The voice from the mid-century jacket man warned sternly the armies of wealth, firm with a cigarette hanging in his lower mouth
Harvest is nigh, the sick workers
Whistle along in the farm land
We’d better prepare our fields
Where the seeds shall blossom forth
in the summer full of warm light
MO.
Image courtesy: http://americancivilwarphotographs.blogspot.com/2013/07/african-american-slavery-picures-and.html?m=1