(I have -no- idea where this one came from…I love the song, but I wasn’t thinking of it, wasn’t thinking of anything that would lead to this…just one that was sitting back there wherever poems come from, and decided to come out, I guess. *shrugs*)
What strange fruit is this, back in the woods,
hung in the trees by ghosts in white hoods,
fruit raised in hate, in sorrow and fear,
but draw close, my children, and a story you’ll hear.
A story of love, of pride and of strength,
a historical tale of unmeasurable length,
of warriors and tricksters and those who would wait,
to tell the tale, in the midst of the hate.
We tell the tale, to big and to small,
to rekindle the fire in the hearts of them all,
to outshine the fires of hate, and of death,
a fire that burns from the first to last breath.
So hark to the tale, and hold it inside,
the answers you seek, the tale will provide,
dream of the day when all will be free,
and no more will strange fruit hang from the tree.