White passes before the eyes,
Reflections of yellow sun and paint,
Amongst the gathering call,
Of the pain of a nation.

It is the ends to a means,
The forgiver,
But never forgetter,
The destiny of many generations,
Of displaced,
And never willing visitors.

From the essence of this,
Reigns the sorrow,
Of the blue endless streams of emotion,
Screaming and wailing,
Of the man and his own hollow wooden god,
Followed by silence,
Never understood,
Simply felt.

The Reverend plays it to himself,
On the prison church organ,
When no one is watching him,
The captive never sing of cotton.