Quisqueya

Hush, hush please,

Bore your hearts yet beat soft spoken

Let malice not disturb this last peace

For lo!

In the outland they know, they know of a gold haven, that heaven has owned

And they sail to her, in search of gold that they fervent know to them be bestowed,

Yet pillage and filch, the only mother that we've ever known

And her children once in the cradles and her bosom blanket

Now in shackles and shrill leave the sands of home grander than gold;

In the outland they know, they blindly know,

That her precious grove shelter a treasure trove,

They know, seemingly know, that ancient gold on this island grow,

And pummel and stone and hang by bone, every child and thing, guiltlessly slow,

And drag them by their throat like beast conquered into sea off sands of home,

In search by outlandish gossip, that we harbor gold;

Watch them, look closely, at them in our sands of home

As they've beaten and broken, and killed us cold

On ships that sail away from our only home,

I say we must make peace with a prayer for our country

And must we leave our mother alone

Onto Cuba, onto our cousins hands,

For her shores surely will make us at home

Let us share our skin this sand

And bathe her on our pores

So when in our toiling hands

Our palms are held in sweat

By our motherland

So she may be gone from us

But never lost

I say what are these hesitant cries haven’t their sprits told

Of what course these ships on bloody waters go

For to their Chief they are presented to, and not even death must they cough up gold

Watch their blood spill on the golden marble floor

Painted bloody gore, and greedy want, the want of more

Through the reflection, of the blood and the golden marble floor

And whipped they cough the gold, and die miserable and sore

The king and his boars, hoove through the gold suffered for

And in their tainted hands, they know, only later know, that this hearty gold

In their hands will never be rich as the stories told

For in Quisqueya her sandy shore, and seas of home

In the hands of theives, those ignorant hands, now hands of cursèd coal

And in Quisqueya we know, we somberly know, this isn’t the last our people will go

They know, they know, many more people will be killed for myths of gold