Walk between the lines,
Quiet a century and a half,
Except for whispers through a foggy shroud,
Below squirrel teeth on hickory nut,
Quieter than browsing deer,
The echo of shot,
Rebel yell, cannon,
Rebound off stone sentinels.
Any summer-day family picnic,
White cloth laid on blood-soaked earth,
Children raise stick guns
To fire on mother, brother, father, sister.
A sun warmed day,
No tarnish on games of history,
But in the mist of autumn
This truth will not be silent,
On these hills,
Between these lines,
Brother blood flowed by brother hands.
Time will argue for and against,
The meaning of the dead,
A fight to set slaves free,
Or hold sovereign sway of nation over state,
Or Johnny Reb saw King George where Lincoln sat,
Or Yankee hands lusted for smooth cotton from the gins.
Carpet bag in hand,
Victor plays the slave a pawn,
Another hundred years,
Freedom in both north and south,
Manacled by flesh tones,
The color of hate’s sting,
Waiting the inspired words by Martin Luther King.
Federal decree beget equality?
Between first Adam
And the last trumpet,
Entombed upon a foggy hill
Until released by blood.
We dare not shrug,
This shroud until the morning star sings.