Strange fruits hang low as a reminder of my past. The lost language of my people has come to pass. A thousand cries, from stolen people have walked the path. The land barren, however you came with them. You’re the ancestors stolen child, who had no right to bare a last name. The sun has battered the son, yet the heart still gyrates with hope. That one day joy will return home from this Odyssey. Just as the waves pull the sand, there too I’ll be waiting. Surrounded by the colors of your skin. Here you stand, where the strange fruit grows.
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