Prelude for the Enslaved Peoples

THESE lanthorns we of bone,
Burning, going out alone,
These lanthorns we of bone —

These lanthorns we enmesh
More than the cringing flesh
Bared to the conqueror’s lash;

These lanthorns we enmesh,
For evil or for good,
In the remembering blood
More than its ebb and flood.

Crusted or flowing blood,
Hearts living or of stone,
More than us will atone
These lanthorns we of bone. . . .