Strange Fruit

Tears wet at the tip of his chin Dried, from the wind, on his exposed cheeks Fresh scent of strange fruit filled the clouds Which overcast the band that played mournful music with their walk That sung sorrow hymns with their prayers Woe voices traveling through the steel bars from the mouths of innocent sexes Voices shuffled through the beaten bodies, Terrorized by the pale hand that held the leash of a brainwashed dog, taught to execute our heritage Burning sun, cooking the flesh of a man, causing the smoke smell similar to the burnt smell of the four baby girls, whose bodies were modified by hatred and fire, bricks and inequality They metaphorically lynched Cynthia Wesley, Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, and Denise McNair They lynched the quiet ones, the blessed ones, the powerful ones, the trust of our race Don't let them lynch our generation