August in Virginia,
a warm brandy night in 1831.
seven slaves discussed the freedoms to be won.
Christ's blood on the cornfields,
a benighted hand to suffocate the sun.
War with the Serpent: visions from The Book
led a preacher to the gun.
"Seek ye the kingdom of Heaven
and all things shall be added unto you,"
Words from the Spirit
to see Southampton County's insurrection through.
Hoisting the window,
the Rebels burst into the sleeping master's room.
Blows from their hatchets: each child's bed
a crimson, wooden tomb.
"Was Christ not crucified?"
In deadly silence the farms were sacked,
alerting no free man to the next attack.
Sixty fell to their axes and their swords,
the General foretelling salvation from the Lord.
Recruiting warriors they freed
from the ranks of the flogged,
They rode through the bogs:
a cavalry of stolen steeds.
The wrath of the unbound,
the oppressors' constant fear,
the screams of two hundred years,
piqued the ears of the white man's hounds.
Lynch mobs' slaughters
of black sons and daughters,
Blameless in this battle
Butchered as cattle.
The Deep South trembled at the Negro prophet's renown.
Vengeful militias hunted the panicked slaves down.
Captured near his cavern,
judged in Jerusalem,
Turner, brimming with glory,
confessed to his story.
Led to the gallows of Calvary,
a killer, a martyr, grinned.
His deeds etched in history,
his body hanged and skinned.