When the cotton fields sleep, the music starts,
We rest, relax and tend to our bullwhip scars,
An orange glow beneath the mantle is lifting the dark,
Fire logs crackle, pop and split in the hearth,
When the sun rests it's head, dusk has brung stars standing above,
Father and son handing heart beats to the African drum,
Embers emerge from the flames and dance in the rhythm,
We sit within the song and graciously gather in singing,
Spirit shakes hands with the moon, bringing with it sadness,
The wisdomous elderly, focus on weaving wicker baskets,
When the cotton fields sleep, we become joyous people,
Huddled and working together to wave off mosquitoes,
Shirts worn and torn so the wind blows on our backs,
Callused hands preparing left overs and scraps,
Our bosses believe their rejections are enough to eat,
Under our watch, even the toughest meat becomes a feast,
Cutlery made of flesh, and the finest delph, made out of plastic,
We become a human cocoon to this make-believe banquet,
Clustered together, sneaking up to the snack like a scuttle of crabs,
I can't calculate if the bread is stale, or it is just from my palms,
When the cotton fields sleep, the light shines in the dark,
It beams straight through our chests and right in our hearts,
We keep getting by regardless, although we struggle to manage it,
We have our health and each other, one lump sum of happiness,
Share it out between us, we cut it in fractions,
Keeping our eyes opened, eventually they'll adjust to the blackness,
The children surround us, we grip our emotion, for all of their sake,
Gleeful smiles put up a wall to protect inequality's pain,
We must power on, live our lives, remain keeping faith,
Cause when the cotton fields sleep, we don't feel like slaves.
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