The Day the Chains Remembered

“They gave us liberty, then sold us a dream—

With sugar-coated shackles and democratic steam.”

—from The Day the Chains Remembered

I. The Liberty Parade

On the day they tossed the chains,

Beneath the Texas sun’s domain,

Men danced in dirt with gospel rain—

Their backs still bleeding, minds still chained.

A general’s breath, a paper read,

Proclaimed, “You’re free!”—though many bled.

Not all were told, not all were fed,

But ink declared the past was dead.

“Juneteenth!” they cheered, in makeshift halls,

While whitewashed lies adorned the walls.

Freedom came late, like guilty calls

From kings who built their thrones on thralls.

But man forgets—he always does—

That freedom’s gift is never 'cause’.

It must be earned, not fed with laws,

And not disguised with grand applause.

II. The Forgotten Jubilee

They raised a flag, red, white, and blue,

With stars that mocked the skies they knew.

One star for each deluded view—

But none for those the South withdrew.

They danced in parks and sang old hymns,

While Capitol bells chimed empty whims.

The news played soft, with filtered trims,

And told of “progress,” sweet and prim.

Yet in the alleys, hunger paced,

And rage still wore a colored face.

The years went by, the truth displaced—

Their liberty was laced with waste.

They built a day to mark their name,

But sold it in the freedom game.

Commercial chains replaced the flame

That once had set the bound aflame.

III. The Mirror Called History

Is man a beast who loves the chain?

Who finds in bondage his refrain?

For every gain, he births a pain,

Then writes it off in God's own name.

They teach the children “slavery passed,”

As if the shadow does not last.

But brands and whips still form the cast

In prisons thick with futures gassed.

They quote the prophets, preach of peace,

Yet kill with pens and laws that cease

The dreams of millions—piece by piece—

And call their system “justice leased.”

Do not forget, do not pretend,

That time alone will wounds amend.

The rope once tied around the end—

Still hangs in minds too proud to bend.

IV. Irony in the Land of the Free

They gave them Juneteenth, yet withheld the feast,

A starving lion, dressed as priest.

"You're free to go," the guards announced,

As payless jobs and guns pronounced.

They marched with smiles and paper signs,

While billionaires sold “Freedom Wines.”

"Buy Black!" they cried in wealthy towns—

And shot Black youth in poorer bounds.

Their senators wore Kente cloth

And knelt upon the Congress floor.

A theater for the gaping mouth,

While bills of justice died once more.

Ah, irony! The soul’s perfume—

To mask the stench inside the room.

We celebrate, then close the tomb,

And sweep the truth with freedom’s broom.

V. The Soul’s Religion

What gods have we, that watched them kneel?

Did heavens turn or just conceal?

Did angels watch the cotton fields,

Or bleed inside the whip’s appeal?

Religion was their last remain—

A hymnal heart, a whispered name.

They knelt to gods both white and Black,

And asked if love would bring them back.

They saw in Christ the slave once hanged,

The beaten god, with ribs outbanged.

His blood was theirs, his cross aligned—

But still, salvation lagged behind.

And now in temples lined with gold,

Where CEOs buy sins and hold

The books of law like ancient scrolls—

They sell the soul, but not the soul.

VI. The Romance of Liberty

What lover this, who breaks the chain

Then charms the slave with tales again?

"You're beautiful," he says, “Divine!”

Yet never lets her sip his wine.

Juneteenth became a new bouquet,

Where petals dropped and sweet decay

Grew soft in speeches, strong in pain—

A romance brewed from rot and rain.

They filmed the day, they snapped the kiss,

And sold the tears as social bliss.

But still, the slave's great-grandchild sighed—

Not free to live, but free to die.

They dress the day in fireworks—

The same that bombed the city’s works.

And in the flash, the truth still lurks:

Their liberty was built by clerks.

VII. Hope in Spite of It All

Yet still they sing, the mothers torn,

Who lost their sons to judgment sworn.

They build the cake, adorn the halls,

And teach their kids that freedom calls.

The soul survives despite the chain,

It dances even through the pain.

The body may be marked and scarred—

But dreams can fly where gates are barred.

Hope is the song no whip could tame,

The whispered truth beyond the flame.

And love—the deepest kind—is found

In soil where blood still feeds the ground.

Juneteenth, though twisted, still is true—

A mirror cracked, reflecting through.

And in that crack, a light is born

To scorch the lies and truth adorn.

VIII. Universal Cry

The slave is Black, the master pale—

Yet both are caught inside the jail.

For any man who feeds on lies

Will wake to find the dream defies.

And all the world has played this part:

To cage the soul, then gift the heart.

In every land, a freedom dressed

In chains of gold or holy vest.

No man is free who blinds the rest,

Nor clean whose justice fails the test.

The clock still ticks, the whip still curls—

Just changed its shape and swapped its pearls.

So celebrate—but never sleep,

For liberty is never cheap.

Juneteenth is both a laugh and cry,

A truth that asks not “how,” but “why.”

IX. The Last Verse: Rise Again

O reader—child of boundless birth,

With skin of sun and salt of earth—

The chains are not in steel alone,

But in the thoughts we call our own.

Let not the story end in dance,

But rather in a deeper glance.

Unmask the world, and you shall see

That liberty begins with thee.

And if this day should come and go,

Like all the years that pass and flow—

Let it remain within your soul,

A fire that makes the broken whole.

Remember them—not just their pain,

But all they built from blood and chain.

Their song is ours to sing anew—

In every land, in every hue.