From Africa to South Central or Gibnut Street, Belize City
This is how we came!
I was murdered
But like my brother says
What’s a cup of water
Taken from the mighty river
I hated that we were beaten down
But I was fierce in my pride…
Made to feel less
But I would not stand for it…
And I was willing to die for it.
And I did!
He shot me in the back
Coward that he was
But you can kill my body
My spirit lives on
My work will continue
In the hearts of my brothers and sisters
In the tears of my family
Writing liquid tracks
Down parchment faces
Etched with the truth of our days
And the pain of our nights
I was Medgar
But I live on…
Ella Wheeler Wilcox said...
There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent or hinder or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;
All things give way before it, soon or late.
What obstacle can stay the mighty force
Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.
Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate
Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
Whose slightest action or inaction serves
The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still,
And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.
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