Having conquered the wretched fool,
Having pained like an arrogant tool,
Having smiled before his master’s whims,
A slave, no more, but less to him.
Nigh beseech thee, far and wide,
The man with the demons in his eye, see,
Glimpse him now, while the time is right,
Glimpse him in his airy strife.
Do you not see, the darkness there?
Do you forego his dreary stare?
Look now slave, hear my contempt,
Feel that anger when you look at him!
Freedom cooks behind your brow,
I feel as you feel it now.
Take that passion, reap its sow,
Raise up you hand, bring up your bow!
Fight the shadows all must loath,
And take your freedom from him.
Fade not, young master, in your pursuit,
Fade not dear child, yes, horde your loot,
Horde your loot that he might not take it,
Take now your self, don’t let him break it.
Run dark child, flee up to them,
Fear not his hand, fear not his men.
They cannot harm you in the land to the north,
Nor take your hand, or your gun, or your sword.
For there the men are kind and good,
They’ll treat you as the white men should,
As an orphaned child in need of a home,
As a long lost brother, with rights to own.
You shall have your weapons, always near,
You must keep weary, but never fear,
No, never while, the good men grow,
Never will there pains, you hold.
Now you’ve heard, my words to thee,
Give your response, boy, tell me, please,
Will you go to white lands far?
Will you trust them still,
While here you’re scarred?
Yes! You’ll come with me afar?
You’ll travel there, you’ll take my par?
Child I’m so glad for thee!
To think my words have set thee free!
Free alas, from your worldly pains!
Free alas from the white man’s chains!
Free to be, your own, your self!
Free to be, no more a whelp!
Here, take now, this hat, wear this cloak,
Take here from my hand, my staff, it is oak,
Fine oak you see, will set you free,
No slave would have it, they’ll let you be, see,
Already you look, as one of us,
Just leave at dusk, to cover that musk,
In darkness, you might, cleanly hide,
Until the north hath reached your side.
I bless thee now, dear child once more,
Your journey, I pray, for you and mourn,
Oh, how I mourn to think the fate,
Of one caught out, long after the late.
And in this state, the child left,
My words of encouragement, clouding his head.
He did not look up when the white man neared,
He did not notice, death’s scruffy beard, yes,
In the shape, of an ugly man,
His master come, to take back the boy’s hand.
Now on the ground, the child wailed,
As master pelted him with hails,
Hails, yes hails, of evil blows,
With wretched whips, he slapped the boy’s toes.
And on that night, when the poor boy died,
I wept my eyes out, woe, that foolish pride!
To think myself, an able nose,
A capable mind, to smell out the foes.
Oh the foes, of that dead boy so cold!
How could I have left, behind him.
Now I’m committed,
My life is omitted,
To ridding the world of this woe.
The child now rotten,
Always I’ll carry him so…
Cameron lives with his parents and four siblings in Michigan. He is a home schooled freshman and loves to write and read. Cameron is an accomplished guitarist and loves to play and write music.