Old Country

Crowds march with speculative looks
Putting their lives on the lines of a book
Like horses galloping towards the unknown
Risking their epitaph on their gravestone

Their hope grows beyond imagination
As if tomorrow is filled with anticipation
Nothing will make them stop or impede
Not even fire, floods, or rattlesnake weed

Women are no longer the ball and chain
They become heroines in the streets of courage and pain
Freedom knocks but seldom touched
Like a nightly ghost that can never be crushed

Time goes by dripping in months and months
And their lives, unplugged, refuse to surrender
Yesterday's crowd has become numb
Like the evenness of an orchid, it will remember