by
Alex
Froede
The sun will soon come to rise. Over the golden painted hills, resting
upon the far horizon, the sun will fill its sky with crimson colors of a morning
broken. Ribbons of red and orange, scattering from its surrounding halo, leaving
fading tracks of blinding colors in its wake for all to see.
A new day is upon us, a rise to another day’s work is at hand. We
awaken to the songs of falsified hope, being sung by the shattered-hearted. We
join the crowd out in the fields and already await the day's end.
Our tears are masked by sweat, our cries by song. Side by side we stand
together, endlessly attempting to conquer a task unreachable. The gleaning of
the fields pays no relief, a torture of repetition haunts this very work.
Endlessly we obey, countlessly we endure only to await the same request in days
to follow.
Day by day our hands run red, split open by the malicious grain. Clothes
faded, tattered and torn, ripped by weather and whips alike. No hope of a better
future, for the future reflexes that of today. Endless work split by a moon,
continued when it has faded.
All along the fields we stand, bent over to the point of collapse. Here
in the position our days are spent, bearing this burden even when work is idle.
Moaning from its presence, praying for its release, we sing this mournful
ballad.
When the night has arrived, we march as one. Towards our bunks we hope to
retire. Washing away the bloody-sweat that coats our face, shows proof of our
daily torment. There we rest till morning's presence, sleeping upon wooden
planks on cold floors. Trying to dismiss the sounds of crying, echoing all
around us.
The sun has risen once again, its golden rays paint the pristine sky with
its immaculate touch. We all gather in front of the shattered window, admiring
its beauty, envying its freedom. How we all wish to flee with the sun after each
day, ride it towards freedom, but our moment of ecstasy is broken once again by
the overseers herding us towards our fate. Here we work hours unchanged, written
in blood by that of are own.
Born into bondage, enslaved from the womb. An endless life entangled in a
web of sorrow. When will this purgatory show me a release? When will my moment
of rest be upon me?