The Twenty-Eight Days of Black History Month

A lifetime of suffering, strife and pain;
Eyes full of tears that mimic the rain.
Working in the cotton fields, under the sun’s hot glaze;
And all we have to celebrate is twenty-eight days.

Some were beaten, hung and killed;
Not allowed to live on our own free will.
A long day’s work and only pennies were paid;
And all we have to celebrate is twenty-eight days.

We gave up our rights, for other people’s wrongs;
Couldn’t even take a seat on the bus, for the long ride home.
For inequity and segregation were more than highly praised;
And all we have to celebrate is twenty-eight days.

Martin became our leader; our civil rights placed in his hands;
Non-violence was his message; stressed all over the land.
But then an assassin’s bullet entered into the fray;
And all we have to celebrate is twenty-eight short days.

We’ve endured our share of setbacks, disappointments, and yes trauma;
It took 44 Presidents before seeing the likes of Obama.
And though we rejoice in his majesty, and the power he portrays;
All we have to celebrate is twenty-eight short days.

Fighting to stay afloat, for us, it’s nothing new;
For this is what our people have become accustomed to.
So, if the twenty-eight days in February are all that we were sent;
You can rest assure, indeed, it will be time well spent.

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