This is a tale of a black woman
Who sat by her window
Staring out into space
Her expression
Shows no emotion

It was as if someone had ripped
her heart right out of her chest
Numb, from wondering
Why?
Her son’s dead now, the funeral past.

Oh, is she just another devastated black mother
The memory, etched forever in her mind
seeing her child
Laying, face down his head surrounded by
a pool of his own blood

He died by the hand 
Of another black man
Gun down in the street
So we hear this same story
Over and over again

Do you think
It’s a coincidence?
Or yet still a subtle plan?
To further oppress and divide our people
The fall and destruction of the black man

Does our destiny
Lie inside of us?
Or still controlled by lingering misconceptions?
“The only good nigger.  Is a dead nigger!”
The voice, I shiver, still echoes from the past.

The woman in the window
Left pondering, still grieving her son
The precious blood of our beautiful black children 
is being spilt on this earth.
She looked and saw darkness, and much sorrow, 
but, 
she also saw hope.