Unbreakable

                                                                Pictures: Google

 Little birds sing,

 Old negro spirituals.

 Around the harbour,

 These tunes they echo;

 To cement the hearts,

 To dry seas in eyes,

 Of men,  women,

 To brew liquor of hate,

 In boys and girls growing.



 Little birds echo tunes,

 Before our strong brothers,

 Before our pride, virgin sisters,

 Before our fathers and mothers,

 Are dragged by their necks;

 As we do bulls when they plough,

 Smitten like we treat thieves of corn,

 Dragged as our cows for slaughter,

 Into a mammoth ark, ark to slavery.



 Little birds cry,

 They shed tears with us,

 Their hearts like ours,

 In great agony beat,

 In deep pain bleed, asking,

 How surely can a man,

 Sell off his kind for whiskey,

 How dare he, for rum,

 His brother's sister offer,

 Banishing the greatest hunters,

 For mere rusty hunting guns,

 Our brothers, sisters,

 All just for funny circus hats.



 Little birds sing,

 Though with voices hoarse,

 About many negro heroes passed,

 About how strong a people we are,

 About our unbreakable souls,

 Our spirits which none can cage,

 Songs of us a strong people,

 Tales of us men of the hunt,

 Echoes of us corn growers,

 Theses little birds still sing,

 And with them, we sing too.

 Father, mother,

 Brother, sister,

 Don't break, ever.

Gerry Sikazwe