The Black Clansman Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

Blue smoke rising through the scented meadow,
crosses the encampments of thought towards the line of fire;
Hastily leaving her thumbprint,
To face the firing squad.

I was the executioner,
she was my girl;
I was the grey boy,
Raised in the parish;
She was a free slave,
And I!
her masters son,
But our hearts bled as one.

But tonight is different,
as our courage sleeps;
There is a distance to overcome,
civil war knocks hard and loud;
Inviting our egos,
To draft new lines.

As the settlers of Goshen foregone,
elucidated by the Pharaohs whip;
Memphis rises from its ashes,
To the deep south of Tennessee.

For I could hear the finches scream,
piercing away at my core,
With every breath valiantly pled,
falling from the lifeless sky.

As leather straps bite her flesh,
Charged with violating the peace code;
Dumbfounded I stand,
Garnering every lash as my own.

I could hear her silky voice,
Begging the muskets for mercy,
A final act of valentine,
As the velvet curtain closes.

No one could understand,
the simplicity of this mission,
lay dormant among us hooded negroes,
that favored the union troops.

We were men of bohemian race,
mercenaries against our cause,
regiments of Freemasons,
Marranos in a robe.

Scar marks were rampant,
even among the colored free,
Who marched back downriver,
descending to their birthplace.

Despite earth and hell,
Jefferson Davis lowered his flag,
Emancipation was proclaimed,
As far as Liverpool.

Eight months later all doubts settled,
Shenandoah's Palmetto banner furls,
Prostrating her masthead towards the Mersey rivers ground,
gallantly taking final bows.

Peace in our time was just a slogan,
a reverie of delirious times,
Mortars seeded the cotton fields,
lacking tribunal justice.

And so I wrestled with continuum,
for this new age has just begun;
A kaleidoscope of eyes estranged,
learning the rules of love.