I sing of you.

Mechanics wrench, carpenters erect, masons shape, boatmen navigate, shoemakers welt, wood-cutters split, mothers and young wives love; create America. The great nation on the hill, the lighthouse in the dark ocean of human rights, has gone dark. It denies us the sight of our barren mountainscape; leaves us helpless to guide others beyond. The land is black and will remain black. There is light however, in each mechanic and mother, in each of us.

In us, is each other. In us, is the earth. Through us, the earth’s voice, by us, the earth’s hand. Who else? There is no enemy. There is no bad guy, there is only you and systems, humanity and society, pathos and logos. Which will you serve? Pure devotion to any of these modes can destroy, but harmonic balance may be struck. By you. By you.

I sing of you. I sing for you, and so I sing of us all.