Our fathers are buried in American soil,
Rain flushes their stories back to the sea,
As I stood by a river, I heard them speaking to me,
Thousands of voices, from some few hundred years,
Their songs battling each other as crashing waves,
Who had held deep silence in the element of their graves,
I felt the history of these strong Black men,
Saw amber’d footage, that had never been shot,
Those rich chapters opened up, having been forgot,
I turned to my father and kissed his hand,
Through our lives he has passed his story down to me,
I will add to his, those gathered on their way to the sea…
Written by David Vollin on 6-16-12
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