As I stand on the hilltops
Gazing deep down the valleys
I behold you
The dwarf but bravest of all
Though amidst thorns and giants
Your branch produces the best
Of black which is gold
You spring forth springs out of desert
For your offsprings
You suffer high intensity
For lack of shelter
Though you’re mocked and neglected
You never give up
In attending lofty heights
The giants that surrounds you
Have denied you love and comfort
All because of your color
The thorns says you’re weak
Because of your dark roots and branches
The giants once again
Call you fool
Because you enjoy being who you are
You are poor because all you’ve got
Have been robbed of you
Your black soil is where they eat
Their purest wine is tapped
From your poorest and darkest vines
Their white garments are but
Products of your dark seeds
All they’ve are turned
From black to colors of choice
Simply to deny of your rich heritage
All you’ve got have been robbed of you
Except the color, which is your pride
