<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=580109" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Daughters for Your Sons</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am the slave hand that rocked the cradle<br>back and forth gently as my pink son slept.<br>While on a dirt floor, my brown son crept.<br>As I catered to masters' mood, my black son wept.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The year 1712, by a lake, grandma heard it.<br>Willie Lynch, his word; she cried as he spoke it.<br>This is her story, she told as a mother; <br>each one her son, each one their brother.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Grandma looked kind of sad, recalling tales by dark waters.<br>She spoke of her sons as she spoke to her daughters; <br>rear them up to be educated, leaders of men.<br>Teach them to fight; not with sword but with pen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You are the black women who'll rock the cradle; <br>back and forth to sons in every coloration.<br>Light, brown, or black, educate each generation<br>Side by side with fathers, set a strong foundation.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am the slave hand that wiped the nose<br>blown in and out softly as my pink son cried.<br>Outside in hot sun as my brown son was tied.<br>By old masters' hand as my black son died.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Celeste Butler-Mendez<br>Copyright ©2005</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Celeste+Butler+Mendez">Celeste Butler Mendez</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=580109" data-title="To Daughters for Your Sons de Celeste Butler Mendez" data-description="I am the slave hand that rocked the cradle back and forth gently as my pink son slept. While on a dirt floor, my brown son crept. As I catered to masters' mood, my black son wept. The year 1712, by a lake, grandma heard it. Willie Lynch, his word..."></div> </div> </div>

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