Written In the Sky

From the first drop of a slave's blood spilled on American soil To the first chains fashioned to break the will of an intelligent voice From the first English phrase spoken, the first African name forgotten Traded in for the first batch of tobacco, bag of sugar or bale of cotton From the first runaways that escaped and dared to be free To the first organised revolutionaries who dared to believe The first rebellious uprisings and burning plantations The first gunshots at the first lynching on the first day after emancipation No more, my Lord No more, my Lord From the first guitar string plucked to play the first chord of the blues The first dance floor struck hard by the first tap dancer's shoes The first jazz musician to pick up his first sax The first DJ to manipulate the first record to be scratched The first challenge to legislation, the first attempt at integration The first realisation that education was indeed the key to your salvation The first black doctors, black lawyers, black teachers, black preachers Black leaders who made a difference for others to start achieving The first night Martin Luther King dreamed, the first book Malcolm X reads, Muhammad Ali's first punch, Michael Jordan's first dunk, Billie Holiday sings her first note, Richard Pryor tells his first joke, Maya Angelou writes her first poem overflowing with her first hope No more, my Lord No more, my Lord Look into an eternity of mirrors and tell me what you see Past triumphs and failures, present concerns and future needs Look into an eternity of visions and tell me what can you conceive? That one day a black man could ever compete and reach the presidency? Could a nation that was essentially established on stolen land, built with stolen labour and enriched by broken hands, entrenched with racism since its history books began, move beyond its past position and seek recognition for a new command? So from that first drop of blood spilled many centuries ago, a seed was planted in them hills that one day would flower and would grow Many firsts have been concealed through many tears and many woes the chapters that truly made America great were from its book of stories never told. No more, my Lord No more, my Lord Lord I'll never turn back no more No more

Pick a perfect picture And I'll show you lines that can divide The soft focus smoothing over The imperfections that we hide Segregation of the soul One that designates our roles As pre-determined curtains drop Exposing all for show Post a picture perfect Then speak of its delights Speak of the harmless hidden treasures Speak of the small-print that denies That crimes can go unwritten Absurdly blurring fact & fiction This canvas frame’s no longer fitting And views can change in different lights For what else is money? Except for paper with pictures Metal with inscriptions Upon which we base convictions And what else can we call prestige? Except another person's creed That stacks one man's certain need Against another’s lurking greed And how else would you view fame? Except for well-controlled acclaim Well-positioned to place with products And well-conditioned to play the game And what of those who see the illusion? And recognise its sweet perfume Are they not consumed by self-delusion? Or merely add to the confusion? For if you pick a perfect picture I'll show you lines that can divide A gentle focus smoothing over The imperfections that we hide Segregation of the soul One that designates our roles For when the curtain drops…. Nothing stops For on must go the show On must go the show Pick a perfect picture And I'll show you lines that can divide Post a picture perfect Then speak of its delights Go down Go down In my flower yard Go down And perhaps You may find Find him there