The Willow Tree with it's drooping
eyes filled with tears.
For centuries enslaved by the
master's will.
For tall it stood in a stately fashion,
a giant shadow it cast,
with it's magnificent foliage, covering
those who walked down it's path.
Under it's protective canopy
were colorful umbrellas,
lavish dresses and songs sung
by slaves, I am my masters's fellow.
In the nearby fields, there were no Willow Trees.
The scorching sun burned their skin.
There were no route of escape for
those slaves who wanted to leave.
Now! the master is dead, the slaves are free.
The road to freedom is filled with joy.
Where the earth was once scorched by the sun,
it is now blocked by the same Willow Trees.
Poetic Verses By Gamaliel H. Gooding
Copyrighted 2013
