Here I am in this small wooden box, Bound up with chains and locks. What is my fate from here? I hope I don't die. Stuck here through the wind and cold, Hearing the others, will they too be sold? Wishing, hoping, praying, I hope I don't die. I was taken from my mother, too. She had warm milk, a soothing moo. I wonder if she knows I'm here, I hope I don't die. Sometimes the others are taken away. "They're goin' to heaven," some elders say, Is heaven good? Does it have freedom? I hope I don't die. But, for now, I'm here in this box. Bound up in chains and locks, Wishing, hoping, praying, I hope I don't die.
Copyright © 1998 by Courtney Ketzler. All
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