The Raven

I stare out between the bars, the chains chafing my wrists, praying — desiring — to be as free as the raven.  She glides through the air so elegantly.  I remember freedom as if it were yesterday.  Everything was going just right.  The next thing I know I'm in this unknown place, everything lost, including myself.  We're not treated with humanity here.  I'm not sure if they know what humanity is. Everything is so unfamiliar to us, coerced to do an over abundance of labour, bleeding in our perspiration.

One of the white devils caught me in my trance, sending blood to pour down my back.

"Get yer sorry ass back to work, nigger!" he commanded.

I continued to remove seeds from the white fluff of the cotton.  I looked back up as I worked.  She doesn't watch with glory, or hatred, or anything else abhorrent.  She has sorrow in her perch.  She pities our forced labour, and she can't do anything about it.  Or maybe she pities our existence.  Then, as she can't take the sight any longer, she flies away.  I don't blame her.  It's quite ugly down here.

"What the fuck are ya' starin' at?" one of the white devils yelled from behind me.  "Keep workin'!"

Blood continued to trickle down my spine.  Or was it perspiration?  I couldn't tell anymore.  I never understand what these devils are always yelling about or why they're always so angry, or their intentions.  They seem to be from another world.

If it were possible to fly away from this hell, we would have a long time ago.  I would fly like the raven — with elegance and serenity.  Maybe she's gone to get some help...  No, that's wishful thinking.  I wonder if she's coming back, whether or not she has reinforcements.  As I continue to work, I imagine our home — much more beautiful and welcoming than this strange place.  And the birds, how glorious they are.  It must be easy being a bird.


This time of morning is a concise serenity — a partial, calming darkness.  The white devils barge in, yelling at us, shoving us, and whipping us with their flexible tridents.  The air is still this morning, and the ravens are hollering, the moon just barely aglow overhead.  I feel a sharp pain on my head.

"Look forward!" one of the white devils commanded.

I can't understand these creatures and their language, but I assume he doesn't want me observing the ravens.  They don't appreciate nature here.  They don't thrive on life like my people.  They cut and burn their trees.

A white devil suddenly grabs and pulls me aside, forcing me to walk at his quick pace to a strange, secluded area.  One I've never been to before.  It seems we are in a field, a group of white devils standing amidst a tall wooden pole.  The white devils help force me to be tied to this pole as they throw sticky black liquid on my whole body, chicken feathers after it.  They're just standing and staring at me now, as one of the white devils starts moving his arm holding the torch up and down yelling something in a consistent rhythm.  Everyone else joined in.  They're chanting, "Kill the nigger, kill the nigger, kill the nigger..."  This is a strange party, and why am I such an important guest, treated in a very odd, demoralising way?  The white devil steps forward with his torch, the other white devils still changing.  Ah, I see it now.  I understand.  This is how I go.  I tilt my head back, the last thing I see the raven flying overhead, staring down back at me.

This life burns to ashes as I begin to fly with the raven.