the last mango tree

slaves built the road we think this as we pass
feet weary as so many feet before
the silent generations under grass

a woman passes smoking on an ass
she's heading towards a most welcome door
slaves built the road we think this as we pass

reaching the church too early for low mass
we pass on by wondering at the score
the silent generations under grass

too many here would harry or harass
any who dared ask for just a little more
slaves built the road we think this as we pass

too many years of blending race and class
have left the good folk sad and all too sore
the silent generations under grass

all is distorted memory's no glass
to see or to reflect on all this lore
slaves built the road we think this as we pass
the silent generations under grass