They sing of blackness,
Of dark lives in dark skins,
Suffering in the blind silence of freedom.
We are drifting through injustice,
And we care not, day by day,
Because we have white lives to lead.
Yet brothers and sisters are we,
Led to life by what is beyond,
Holding hands in the darkness of hope.
Darkness? Hope? How could darkness be hope?
How can it shine in the shades of evil?
How does it thrive in a land without the sun?
Hope is still beginning; that is all,
And though now we sleep in our blind hearts of pain,
It will awake us one day to the sun of its loving.
The train passes rough, raw walls,
Covered with trails of grease and grime,
From decades of blind seeing,
Knowing and ignoring, again and again.
We rely on those tracks, that train
To get us past the city pain,
And release us into the sweetness
Of suburban blossoms.
Yet there is in the city grit,
A life, a plethora of lives,
Filled with desperate hope
Of love yet to be.
There is agony, back from which we flee,
That cannot end without us,
Without you and I looking back,
In our fleeing.
When will we turn and see the sadness,
Looking at us, hands out,
Our brothers and sisters,
Living in the pain of you and me?