The continuous noise of a rock being struck, <br />Multiplying hundreds of times. <br />The pick on stone, like the hammer that strikes, <br />on a clock that forever chimes. <br /> <br />The well muscled arms, and the sweating backs, <br />toiled onwards with not a thirst slaked. <br />These stolen men, harshly chained to a line, <br />Oh, how their shattered bodies ached. <br /> <br />White dust seeped into each eye and dry mouth, <br />beneath that cruel blistering heat. <br />From sunrise they‘d work until past sunset, <br />with barely a moment to eat. <br /> <br />For wealth they were seized, captive they’d remain, <br />No status within our country. <br />And in history books, lies a huge stain, <br />of the evil of slavery.<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-lies-a-stain/
