These pines,
These Southern pines…
They whisper a sweet song.

“Not me.”
“Not me.”

Forgotten though it seems,
A white Jew penned a Lady’s song that a black Nina sang;

“Strange fruit hanging…
from the poplar trees…”

These pines (Ever old) with weak branches
They were young, but they saw it.
They witnessed it.

Budding, but silent…
Slightly protruding…
Young, but not young enough.

They comprehend what they have seen.
“Despicable.”
“Rotten.”
"Mean!"

These are the words that escape their lips.
Grand Magnolias and Oaks of the south…

How could they do this?