NO MORE WANDERING LONELY AS A CLOUD

NO MORE WANDERING LONELY AS A CLOUD.

The valley’s kids play in the dirt,

like daffodils, they grow from the earth.

They’re fed on love and grounded truths.

These are valley kids wrapped in earth and blues.

Our grandads were slaves, same pain, same toll,

Mine cuttin’ cane, theirs deep in the coal.

Slavery blues as bleak and profound

as the valley’s hymns from holes in the ground.

Black and white, both carry the weight,

as slaves to the grave—hewing and harvesting hate.

From wakening screams to final breath,

their shame begs, even welcomes death.

Miners and slaves were told their worth,

scarred and suffocated the dregs of their dearth.

Faces of miners blackened with coal,

backs of slaves lashed and bloodied to the soul.

Miners’ lungs breathed sentiment and dust,

slaves endured with resentment and disgust.

Miners coughed, yet held their pride,

slaves clenched the rage they had to hide.

Power ain’t Black and power ain’t white,

but it’s ours to claim if we unite.

Break the chains, the hunger nights,

the barefoot treks, the stolen rights.

Stand with backs that won’t stay low,

like trees in the valley, roots below.

Against the might of capital greed,

we build the union, plant the seed

and rise from earth to bearing fruits.

The blues go back to my Black boy roots.

Time was when I had no boots

and fought through racist streets.

But they melted away on the revelation day

I helped a white man who had no feet to stand on!

Now, no more wandering lonely,

as a cloud floats over hills.

Instead, we are that crowd

resembling daffodils—

in our togetherness,

perennially rising against those

who couldn’t care less.

White, Black, or in-between—

let hearts be the first thing seen,

so we can sit like kin and laugh and sing,

chorus louder than we’ve ever sung:

our songs of solidarity—

for one life, one fight, one humanity.

The valley’s kids play in the dirt
Like Daffodils, they grow from the earth. They’re fed on love, and grounded truths
these are valley kids wrapped in earth and blues.

Our grandads were slaves, same pain, same toll, Mine cuttin’ cane, theirs deep in the coal.

Slavery blues as bleak and profound
As valleys hymns from those holes in the ground.
Black and white, both carry the weight
as slaves to the grave – hewing and harvesting hate.

From wakening screams to final breath; their shame begs, even welcomes death.
miners and slaves were told their worth
Scarred and suffocated – the dregs of their dearth

Faces of miners blackened with coal,
backs of slaves lashed and bloodied to the soul.  Miner’s lungs breathed sentiment and dust,  slaves endured with resentment and disgust.  Miner’s coughed yet held their pride, Slaves clenched the rage they had to hide.

Power ain’t black and power ain’t white, But it’s ours to claim if we unite. Break the chains, refuse to crawl, Stand together, fight for all. against the might of capital greed.
With union the radical source which feeds
and propels from earth to fruits –
The blues go back to my black boy roots.
Time was when I had no boots
and fought through racist streets,
but they melted away on the revelation day,
I helped a white bloke who had no feet to stand on.

No more wandering lonely, as a cloud
floats over hills. Instead, we are that crowd resembling daffodils in our togetherness
perennially versus those who couldn’t care less.

White, Black or in-between
let hearts be the first thing seen
so we can sit like kin and laugh and sing
chorus, louder than we’ve ever sung
our songs of solidarity
for one life, one fight, one humanity.