His spirit rose, or so of him was said
Though his bones still sway on the poplar tree
And the rank Southern air reeks of burnt meat
And I implore an answer or some light be shed-
For if the reconstructed South is fixed
This new strange fruit speaks of a different truth.
A century and more a nation’s brute
Indifference of humanity eighty-sixed
Countless lives, countless potential for great
Collaboration and understanding.
Cowardice instead! Disbanding, not standing
Collectively, is our unfortunate fate.
If his spirit rose, then where did he go?
To the Father- the Southern man’s good book told
Joseph Lagalante
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