In the corner sits and old wooden rocking chair
Just as it's sat for the last hundred years
Worn and polished with the patina of age and use

I sit, pencil and pad in hand trying to visualize
What it has witnessed over the years long past
Tears of happiness, tears of heartbreak
Of births and of death

Christmases and birthdays when times were hard
Times when money was scarce
But times when the children understood
Times when children were content, with the little that they had

That old chair has sat there in the corner
For at least a hundred years
I read stories in the grainy polished woodwork
And let my imagination loose

in the land of the white
live too the black men
apparently with equal right
but with covert disdain.

why couldn't the world be one place
when we are all from common gene
where humanity is the only race
across the color of skin.

in the land of the black
live too the white men
apparently of the same pack
but on a different plane.

why couldn't the world be one landmass
when we rose from one origin
where being humane is the only class
across the color of skin.

in the land of the white
live the white men
among them aren't equal right
exist disparity and disdain.

why couldn't the world be one unit
when together we all once had been
where brotherhood is boldly writ
across the color of skin.

in the land of the black
live the black men
among them oneness they lack
the inequalities still remain.*

why couldn't the world be one creed
where mankind lives as one kin
the white and the black can only read
love across the color of skin.