Your freeman’s soul, the chains you throw,

Was not the key, that has turned your fate;

The outsiders, whom, you’ve never known,

Were not the latch, that weights your cage;

The tray of slop, on which you feast, today,

Will leave with you forever its lasting taste.

These metaphors, this feeling sore, cannot

Restore what time is lost either which way;

Your ankles’ weights which killed your gait,

The iron pick with which stones you break;

There is but no one who can sing the song,

As there are but no guards, to stop escape;

These judgment eyes, have read your plea,

have sized you down, casts, but no decree.