Tell it on the trials of Natchez,
Publish it on the paths of Southhampton, Virginia.
Let the children of the dead rejoice,
Let the echoes of lives past triumph.
You mountains of Denali, you swamps and bayous of Lafourche,
Erupt with great joy, flood your banks with great tides.
For yes in this life-time, in this season, in this age
Has the hopes of the slain, the tears of the stricken and fallen been fulfilled.
Let the silent whispers from the cotton fields of Vicksburg,
The hushed words in the dark plantation huts of Pottawatomie,
The tears of the aborigines, the wails of those in bondage,
The anguish of the childless mother of many,
The lamentation of the motherless child,
From the caked pains of our ancestors yellow, brown and ebony
Proclaim that in this life-time, in this season, in this age,
Has the whispers, words, tears and wails been heard.
Today we rise,
From the shores of the motherland, to the beaches of sojourning lands.
Today we speak,
From the brutalization of the spirit, to the dehumanization of my people.
Today we match,
Underneath the shadows of those that came before us,
On the wings of those who lifted us, to proclaim loud and clear
Yes we can.
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