The Bones in the Garden

Tell no one of the bones,
buried deep within the garden.
Bones of black men dead and gone
that now lie in rest, forgotten.
On this which we deem hallowed ground
their plight in death unknown;
no tombstones mark their graves or names,
no record in old stone.

Tell no one of the men,
whose lives were lost for nothing.
Their dark skin affronted those who thought
their lives could not mean something.
They dragged and beat and burned these men,
burned them to the bones;
then they discarded their remains
in this garden they now call home.

Tell no one of the tears,
shed here in this old garden.
A flood of grief in cries and wails
among weeds and flowers rotten.
No justice awaiting for these men,
their killers unknown and free;
their loved ones suffer to never know
peace or tranquility—

So tell no one of the bones
buried deep within the garden.
Let them remain there undisturbed,
the mystery forgotten.
Remember only they once were loved
by family and in folklore,
men who once stood strong and proud,
and now they are no more.