Skirts of coarse cotton sweep through rich and hilly pastureland, sounds of agony boom in the distant
whilst the natives are marched to foreign grounds
irrationally, ruthlessly.
She fails to keep steady gait, her steps are wavering, unstable with sorrow and compassion.

One step further from their home, one step closer to unknown soils.

Lands to reap, new dwellings to keep,
but what is to be gained must prior be lost, in the land of ample harvest and affluent grounds.

A tragic happening, though repetitive. Heartless men, garbed in finery
and armed in weaponry, their muskets too ready, their hearts too calloused with selfishness.

She stoops, bowing her head, knees bent with unease to honor the natives,
whilst they march past, fastened by chains
and bound from freedom,
as soldiers, and foreigners, conquer more,
and more
and more
of the New World.

One step further from their home, one step closer to unknown soils.

They marched on. ‘Neath scarce cloths and paint masked faces of dark tones; brown hues.
A solitary native, black as ebony locks reaching his broad shoulders,
looks in her way, with eyes deep and mournful as the floor of the sea.
Tis beyond noontide and fore dusk as they march on.
Fastened with chains, bound from freedom,
they marched on.
He understood the brutality of the situation
and the kindred heart of a helpless seer.

She bent ever lower, and her two tear glazed eyes peered up, in time to see
him slightly nod with humility and truly felt acknowledgement
for the single Englishwoman,
like a master bowing to his servant, stooping through pride for the cause of the defenseless.