The Blood Of Old

by Marcus Harris


Iím the blood thatís mixed with the tears that were shed
when families were ripped apart and individuals forcefully led
to the dank, overcrowded dregs of dilapidated ships,
where disease escaped none and death was beseeched by many lips,
as the tides heard the wails piercing through the thickest fogs
yet sent the men to a place where they would be treated no better than dogs.
Can you hear me crying out from the depths of the earthís soul?
Iím the blood that was bled at the behests of hearts ice cold.
Iím the blood of your ancestors,
The Blood Of Old.

Iím the blood thatís mixed with the sweat from the backs
of the men with countless scars from being savagely shellacked,
and the women who spent endless nights awake in panicked dread
for fear that their unscrupulous masters come creeping into their beds,
and the children bred, black, yellow, and brown, trained in captivity,
beaten like animals while building a country in which they would never be free.
Can you hear me crying out from the depths of the earthís soul?
Iím the blood that was bled by human beings bought and sold.
Iím the blood of the nationís true founders,
The Blood Of Old.

Iím the blood thatís mixed with the bullets that flew
from one brother to another as gray fired upon blue,
while the unsuspecting pawns of the match played an integral part
in a contest waged without their best interests at heart,
quickly disregarded once the guns and knives were dropped,
forgotten for another hundred years Ďtil the second war for freedom was fought.
Can you hear me crying out from the depths of the earthís soul?
Iím the blood that was bled by the brave, valiant, and bold.
Iím the blood of unityís sacrificial lambs,
The Blood Of Old.

Iím the blood thatís mixed with the water from the hose
as it lashed against the flesh and bones of those trapped in its throes,
while men and women marched to be treated as equals under the law
(but cracked ribs and fractured skulls was the only equal treatment they saw),
and of four little girls in Sunday School who will forever be seen by humanity
as martyrs whose lives were taken away by those acting in the name of Christianity.
Can you hear me crying out from the depths of the earthís soul?
Iím the blood that was bled by those oppression could no longer hold.
Iím the blood of freedomís providers,
The Blood Of Old.

Iím the blood thatís mixed with the bodies that are ceaselessly buried
as the world is robbed of young lives and potential taken in a needless hurry,
dying in vain behind the facades of honor, glory, and pride,
trying in vain to find a way to fill the emptiness deep down inside,
closing their eyes to the true source of their problems, instead blaming everyone else,
taking the place of the hoods and white sheets as they unwittingly lynch themselves.
Can you hear me crying out from the depths of the earthís soul?
Iím the blood that is bled by those to whom the truth has not been told.
Iím the blood of those who have forgotten
The Blood Of Old.


The Blood Of Old by Marcus Harris

© Copyright 1999. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.


TimBookTu Logo

Return to the Table of Contents | Return to Main Page