This little rose

So dark and damaged

Grew from the roots

Of southern Alabama.

Her petals fell gently to the ground

Not knowing where she’ll lay.

Her roots are withered to the top,

Where her rose would soon blow away.

She looks up to see the North Star,

Wondering where all her friends were.

Not knowing what tomorrow had in store.

But she would sleep quietly in her owners cellar.

Life wasn’t easy as a slave in the 1776.

You were lucky if you didn’t get hit.

You would have never known,

The starry lonely nights,

Sitting down on the hay,

Singing to the night lights.

This little rose never made it home,

This little rose,

This little Rose.