Ancestral Hands Poem by Linford Sweeney

Partially clothed in resplendent fineries of moonlight beams;
silhouetted as if by movements from still recurrent dreams;
warriors of ancient times stand before the chosen path to go
beyond where weary plantation owners were fearful to know.

With respectful bows, each shadow quickly became a disguise;
whilst their guide and pilot watched, from afar in a starry sky.
All weapons safely concealed in ancient and spiritual thoughts,
reflected in flashbacks and fast collective beating hearts.

Runaways, soon to be no more, battle-scarred warriors they are;
torn from the clutches of a cruel and desperately fought war.
Never again to reflect the painful fear in the eyes of the old,
and eagerly embraced by the young - great hope yet to behold.

Entranced and focused, moving slowly in the dead of the night,
ghostly figures walking by - cleverly hiding shards of light.
The ancestors arrayed in their divinity, discipline and wisdom,
with outstretched arms, ready to grant that awaiting freedom.

Atop the great hills where courageous guardians kept their watch,
a small African community stirred, waiting for dawn to hatch.
Within lay the plans conceived to free and unify their lands;
as each warrior is jubilantly greeted by safe ancestral hands.