Tom Robinson, Too, is Worth his song
By Mikhail Bullard
Any day now! It's about time that the larks started singing their melodious harmonies of beauty and grace, sing, sing sweetly still, their undertones uniting the underlying message which falls like acid rain on deaf ears, decomposing the immoral fabric that binds us all. Tom - bound in the iniquities of his innocence, of his pigment, the thunder bellowing it's cry in the distance, trying to, block out the sun, the moon, the stars and most of all the song of the lark - the song of the Nigger that could have been.
The song of Hope, of Victory, of Life, of Morale, of immortality, Yeah, lashes out now at the soon former things. Though the past is but a harsh, violent wind to our backs, tipping the balance - pursuing everlasting turbulence, we trod forward with hindsight, a prior predetermined knowledge of what is and what should be.
The sun however is constant, night after night it returns excorcising the phantoms of the darkness, emerging as bright and colorful as a rainbow after the storm, bringing light in the midst of utter darkness. The moon never waxes or wanes but is full and content and the stars shine with a brightness unbeknown to man.
And so shall we be, larks on a mission - no foe , no villainous vigilante will stand or conquer. Our song will continually be permeating from our mouths, minds, hands and legs. Until all have heard, until every crow cans't live among the doves - then the song of the lark will be the song of the Nigger that is.
Any day now! It's about time that the larks started singing their melodious harmonies of beauty and grace, sing, sing sweetly still, their undertones uniting the underlying message which falls like acid rain on deaf ears, decomposing the immoral fabric that binds us all. Tom - bound in the iniquities of his innocence, of his pigment, the thunder bellowing it's cry in the distance, trying to, block out the sun, the moon, the stars and most of all the song of the lark - the song of the Nigger that could have been.
The song of Hope, of Victory, of Life, of Morale, of immortality, Yeah, lashes out now at the soon former things. Though the past is but a harsh, violent wind to our backs, tipping the balance - pursuing everlasting turbulence, we trod forward with hindsight, a prior predetermined knowledge of what is and what should be.
The sun however is constant, night after night it returns excorcising the phantoms of the darkness, emerging as bright and colorful as a rainbow after the storm, bringing light in the midst of utter darkness. The moon never waxes or wanes but is full and content and the stars shine with a brightness unbeknown to man.
And so shall we be, larks on a mission - no foe , no villainous vigilante will stand or conquer. Our song will continually be permeating from our mouths, minds, hands and legs. Until all have heard, until every crow cans't live among the doves - then the song of the lark will be the song of the Nigger that is.