In the twilight of bondage, they toiled,
Resilient hands sowing seeds in reluctant soil.
Whispers of freedom fueling their silent dreams,
Through cotton fields and rivers, fierce as streams.

Those hands, they built a nation, strong,
Crafting legacies of pain into a song.
From shackles to the struggle in city streets,
Marching, chanting, never accepting defeat.

Civil rights—more than words, a cry in the dark,
From Selma to Montgomery, they left their mark.
Hands raised in protest, clenched into fists,
Voices echoing from past to present, a list
Of dreams deferred, yet undeniably alive,
In resilient hearts that strive and strive.

Through decades of denial, still, they rise,
Crafting wisdom from the tears in their eyes.
From jazz clubs to boardrooms, their tales they spin,
Of battles fought and souls determined to win.

Now, these hands weave threads of diverse hues,
In classrooms, courts, in avenues.
Still fighting, still dreaming, with fierce intent,
For justice—a path not freely given, but rent
From the fabric of a society, too slow to mend,
A tapestry of equality, we vow to extend.

For every daughter, every son,
Resilient hands say, "The work's not done."
Marching forward, with history's scars,
Under the same sun, the same stars,
Bound by hope, they reach anew,
For rights that are not given, but due.