Edwin Garnett Riley; Poems for Your Scrap Book, Chicago Defender, April 23, 1921

I live upon a blood washed soil,
   Where freedom's sons their rights expound.
'Tis here I breathe and strive and toil,
   And yet, in fact, I still am bound.

'Tis here the eyes of all mankind,
   In search of justice, fondly turn;
Yet they who wield the power are blind;
   The nobler law they rashly spurn.

I am not free while that which cries
   For greater consciousness within.
The boasted claim of cast denies
   To me and others of my kin.

I am not free while I must lie
   Within the pale of grottoes dim
And be accursed--I know not why--
   A victim to each churlish whim.

I am not free while others seek
   To bind me to a menial state,
And strive to prove that I am weak
   And never can be strong or great.

I am not free while hatred reigns,
   While scorn rejects my race and hue,
And sullen prejudice disdains
   To grant me that which is my due.

I am not free nor shall I be
   'Til love has sealed the hearts of men,
And truth, her mighty travail see;
   I shall be free, but not 'til then.