How beautiful the feet that walk the trail of tears
Bare-soled and bloodstained, on display for their peers;
Do you know how it feels—to have your history erased?
Your founding fathers all convicted and evicted from their place?
No trace of fair trial, they was all forced to plea
There’s even more hidden figures than America believes
So I'm searching for my roots, cause Haley had to make his up;
It's tragic when we fabricating basic stuff
Like, I ain't got no history that ain't based in fluff
Or placed in cuffs? . . . Rough
And so I journey for the truth, go wherever spirit call me
And when it led me to the booth, I picked up a new hobby:
Relating the fate of our greatest national crime
Illustrating the weight being hated has on the mind
Forever waiting in line but never fed;
So we subsist on our rhymes, put faith in wisdom divine
We raise our fist in defiance, we're never dead!
How beautiful the feet of those who bring good news?
I'm not a prophet—nor do I profit from the word play;
I'm simply telling tales of pilgrims fasting till the third day
We're passing over Thursday, no muse to invoke
Just the music of my kinfolk; and pivotal rhymes
What if the Liminal Minds were given space to speak?
When would they say, “We're free”?
I guess we still gotta walk
Million Mile March to freedom, time to let the pilgrims talk