For the set-foot-on new-found sand, We set sail from mosaic to mosaic shoreβ Our black slave-belly churning, evermore.
In the distance We saw a strange, ominous dome. So dense it seemed, As if crafted from molten slick! As if crfated from an accumulated Earth-spit. As if fashioned from one complete object. Clearly crafted and fashioned by Futurity's hand; He who strove upwards and did not question what He saw as progression. Futurity: He who would compel me to free my stock of black slaves once we reached this sequestered clump of land; For these isles seemed no place for men with torn and shackled hands. For these isles seemed a place where shackled slaves would free themselves! and feed on their master's bone strands.