A rally cry,
A rally cry,
From valleys deep
And hills so high
For negros young
For negros old
Our flag will fly
Our flag will fly
Our fists held high,
Our blood runs dry,
As blue's in the sky
Our flag will fly.
In fifty years time I'll sit with my grandchildren, and tell them stories of my youth. My stories will reflect those of my grandmother. I'll tell them on Klans men who ran in the streets of Charlottesville. I'll tell them of Trayvon Martin. I'll tell them of Tamir Rice. I'll tell them that black blood, ran down the streets into the gutters, and bodies lay in the sun, cooking for hours upon hours.
I'll tell them that black lives matter. I think. I'll tell them despite all adversity the black flag will fly.
But most importantly, I'll tell them a story of happiness. Of prosperity. Of hope.
