The Slaves

Oh, how barren, how desolate it feels! The sun falls behind the naked hills, Far away upon a blood-red sky The wind bends clouds that drift and sigh. And the sea is boiling. Wave on wave Foams and rises, then falls to the grave. Birds are wheeling, beating wings, While groaning, the ship through the waters clings. Enormous, black. Upon its gleaming prow Bound men and women twist somehow, They break their hands, in silence cry, Their loosened hair flies wild and dry. They clutch their chests, their fingers strain, In chains they reach to heaven’s plain, From their bodies voices rise and call, Where the sun sinks beyond it all. Far away, in that distant land, Where the wind howls fierce and grand, Deep within that demonic storm, They glimpsed a shore, a home once warm.