“Get the firewood, boy” The master yelled aloud
His voice blatant, as thunder from a dark cloud
The boy ran into the barn to fetch some more
He was now almost used to that tone, so proud
It had been more than years four
Since he was enslaved and sent ashore
Into a land which he knew not
He had never set foot on it before
His master was furious and had shot
The others like him who had got
The guts to answer against his power
He had learnt “With servility, life is bought”
He wasn’t free to eat, nor shower
Nor could he pluck a leaf or flower
Which white children of his age could do,
and none of them would ever flinch or cower
And why was it that they said “Shoo!”
When he wanted to play with them too
They would just laugh or pelt stones
And shout revilements, one or two
And when he fell sick to the bone
There was no mercy to be shown
He still had to do all the petty works
And had to bear the ever-harsh tone
But in his mind there still lurks
A hope to go away from these jerks
To a place where he could silently mourn
Where the whites would no longer irk
A permanent frown he now had worn
And for four years he had bourn
Maddening misery and lonesome pain
All his dreams had shattered and torn.
He would sometimes sit in the rain
And wonder whether he was still sane
If he was, then why was it that
All his hard work had gone in vain.
In sweltering heat, he had burnt his fat
And for years, slept on a thin flimsy mat
He had planted and watered their huge plot
And without all work done, he had never sat.
But he would follow what his master taught,
That “With servility, life is bought.”
So he obeyed that blaring voice, so loud
And with both hands the firewood he caught.