A fork

O, people of a more than swarthy complexion
Who, under accursed chains, lived a life most unfair
Enter ye now into a blessed new age
In which forgiven shall be the fiendish old deed.

O ye with hearts bathed in the waters of hatred,
How long shall ye remain in that darkened passion?
Till death from the poison of its venenous air,
Or till your hearts be consumed by their inner rage?

O ye whose dolor prevent from turning the page
And ye mule-headed who will your vile passion feed,
Shall ye not listen to the voice of reason,
And hence by travail make your condition more fair?

Blaming and cursing together make a foul pair.
O ye who with this pair have built yourselves a cage,
Dwelling in the same, with unquenched your every need,
See the fork: joy or sadness, reason or passion?