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Poem
Freedom Cries, Freedom Cries, Let My People
Go.
From African Slave Stations to Cotton Plantations “poor
folk” with Low Wage Occupations, we are truly
losing our patience.
Free, Free, I’m gonna be free or master kill me.
So we run through the fields, wade in the water and
head for the hills following Moses “master dead
on our heels”. It won’t be long, before
I’m set free, either here or in heaven, either
one is good for me, Lord, in my heart desperation lies,
an in my soul my Freedom cries.
Poem by Troy Wise
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