Grey clouds on a sabbath day.

One day out of seven,not forced,willingly on your knees.

No brass,forced to worship and polish to appease.

The false idols rested on the seventh day.

Colonial statues with clay hearts,crumble and decay.

No chains under the unrelenting hot sun to enslave.

Eleven fifty-nine p.m,the iron rusted fist recedes.

Blood on the hands,soaked in poison deeds.

A time of rest,the wounds of toil,unwrap and bleed.

A day of power,stripped bare of race and hate.

Monday the chain tightens,the key inserts unlocking the barbed gate.