I look at you and see me with a different face,
listen to you and hear me from another race,
talk with you, and you hear your voice in pain:
all these centuries later, here we are again.

You can read every story on the lines of my palm.
Even in disunity and ignorance we're still calm,
trying to erase the questions on our face,
to see the future the past has woven, with grace.

Five times a day we bow to the rising sun.
We sing and celebrate the glory of the son
who died on the cross to save mankind.
Not my kind! I say. They say, Never mind.

One thousand blacks hung on a hundred trees,
scorched and blown by winds with no breeze.
Blood oozed out of every one of their pores,
and flowed back to their native ocean shores.

There was no divine intervention for our ancestors.
Today our voices merge to bring us more answers,
knowing the torture they endured was not futile:
their sweat and strength made this land fertile.

We know that our different facial features,
accents and religions will not keep us apart.
Truth goes deeper than the first drip of blood
that fell when the whip tore up their flesh.

Our journey back into history is no easy ride.
We're fighting the enemy on our side,
digging up the stories that were flung far and wide
when they dropped our people by the wayside.

We are the sons and daughters
of the unsung heroes of millions of lives.
Time, place, space or season,
the world stands because we do.

Cherif Correa