I look out my window and I see them,
Putting in their baskets cotton that is perfectly white,
Just as they are perfectly black.
And I wonder, why color is so important.
I look out my window and I see her,
She is so small, picking cotton like that is her life’s purpose.
And I wonder, is it?
Is picking cotton all she will ever do?
I look out my window and I see him,
Helping the small girl fill her basket, and then filling his own.
And I wonder why he always helps her,
When he knows that scars will be added to his back for his mistake.
I look out my window and I see her,
Older than the other girl, and falling behind with her work.
And I wonder how someone so old can work so hard,
And I wonder why someone so old should have to work so hard.
I look out my window and I see them,
Working, sweating, hurting, and singing.
And I wonder how they can be singing,
When they are in such pain, and such circumstances as these.
I close my eyes, and I listen through my window.
I hear the songs of their people,
Young voices mixing with old ones, everyone welcome to join in.
And I wonder why such peaceful people are treated with such disdain.
I listen through my window and I hear her.
The young girl is laughing,
For even in her tiresome state, she is still happy.
And I wonder how she can laugh, when all I can do for her is cry?
I listen through my window and I hear him.
In his singing, I hear tension, like the singing hurts him.
And I wonder if it does.
Are his punishments so bad that it hurts to sing?
I listen through my window and I hear her.
She has the best voice of them all.
Low, deep, clear, sorrowful, and inspiring.
And I wonder why such talent is wasted in a place like this.
I listen through my window and I hear what so many can’t see.
I hear the identity of people.
People who have way more to them than their color.
And I wonder why no one else bothers to listen.
I open my eyes and I look at myself.
I see my hand, the same hand as theirs,
Paler, softer, but the same hand.
And I wonder why their hands do so much, and mine so little.
I move down from my hands and look at my stomach.
I see how soft mine is,
And I wonder why mine gets to be so soft,
While theirs has to be so hard and pointy.
I look out my window and I see her.
The little girl who looks so much like me,
Except she doesn't have a mother or father,
And I wonder who comforts her.
I look out my window and I see them.
They are hardworking, talented, beautiful,
And they are slaves.
And I wonder how so many can look at them, and yet no one can see.
I look out my window and I see injustice,
I see something that needs to be changed.
And I no longer wonder, instead I know.
I know that someday, it will be me, my people, who changes this.
Putting in their baskets cotton that is perfectly white,
Just as they are perfectly black.
And I wonder, why color is so important.
I look out my window and I see her,
She is so small, picking cotton like that is her life’s purpose.
And I wonder, is it?
Is picking cotton all she will ever do?
I look out my window and I see him,
Helping the small girl fill her basket, and then filling his own.
And I wonder why he always helps her,
When he knows that scars will be added to his back for his mistake.
I look out my window and I see her,
Older than the other girl, and falling behind with her work.
And I wonder how someone so old can work so hard,
And I wonder why someone so old should have to work so hard.
I look out my window and I see them,
Working, sweating, hurting, and singing.
And I wonder how they can be singing,
When they are in such pain, and such circumstances as these.
I close my eyes, and I listen through my window.
I hear the songs of their people,
Young voices mixing with old ones, everyone welcome to join in.
And I wonder why such peaceful people are treated with such disdain.
I listen through my window and I hear her.
The young girl is laughing,
For even in her tiresome state, she is still happy.
And I wonder how she can laugh, when all I can do for her is cry?
I listen through my window and I hear him.
In his singing, I hear tension, like the singing hurts him.
And I wonder if it does.
Are his punishments so bad that it hurts to sing?
I listen through my window and I hear her.
She has the best voice of them all.
Low, deep, clear, sorrowful, and inspiring.
And I wonder why such talent is wasted in a place like this.
I listen through my window and I hear what so many can’t see.
I hear the identity of people.
People who have way more to them than their color.
And I wonder why no one else bothers to listen.
I open my eyes and I look at myself.
I see my hand, the same hand as theirs,
Paler, softer, but the same hand.
And I wonder why their hands do so much, and mine so little.
I move down from my hands and look at my stomach.
I see how soft mine is,
And I wonder why mine gets to be so soft,
While theirs has to be so hard and pointy.
I look out my window and I see her.
The little girl who looks so much like me,
Except she doesn't have a mother or father,
And I wonder who comforts her.
I look out my window and I see them.
They are hardworking, talented, beautiful,
And they are slaves.
And I wonder how so many can look at them, and yet no one can see.
I look out my window and I see injustice,
I see something that needs to be changed.
And I no longer wonder, instead I know.
I know that someday, it will be me, my people, who changes this.