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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 who are indeed free at last;
hands that no longer to embrace
in giving hugs of love—Hands no longer
to clasp in prayers of thanksgiving.
Now we must ever ponder
and take 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
you will be free at last! For death
makes no distinctions—Hands-wise.
