I cry for the ancestors
Born under the white man’s boot
To 400 years later, look down
and see the white man shoot
sons and daughters of sons
staring down the barrels of guns
Feet caught in webs that are spun
for entertainment and fun

I cry for the ancestors
who knew we were destined for more
They put the hinges on doors
to watch us knocked to the floor
just a few inches off

But the ancestors knew
That black don’t crack,
despite the scars on their backs
We’ll take back what is ours
They planted the seeds
And we will grow the flowers

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