If each one of us could look deep into our family tree we would eventually find slaves and slavemasters. Through the generations we have moved from one to another seemingly in an endless round of highs and lows. History recalls how at some time the lucky amongst us managed to stay on the right side of the fence whilst the less fortunate became the subjugated and downtrodden.

Irrespective of skin colour, ethnic background or religious beliefs, no person should lose their freedom to another.

Another fine piece of writing from Robert Warrington.

I’d write to my love but my letters are fetters
I’d kiss my love but my lips are whips
I’d give my love my mother’s cross
But it’s burning all the way to the Christmas Steps

As for me, I’m a son of a gun
As for me, I’m the slavemaster’s son
I’m the one, the first in line
One day soon, all of this will be mine

My father was slave island bound
He hung slave island by the neck
I’d walk to my love but my footfalls sound
Like the captain strutting on the slave ship deck

As for me, I’m a son of a gun
As for me, I’m the slavemaster’s son
I dreamed my queen was wrapped in gold
When I woke up she’d been sold

I’d love to see my love reclining
Under England’s other skies
But the sea is cold and shining
As my father’s cancerous eyes

As for me, I’ve got a business to run
As for me, I’m the slavemaster’s son
His lies run through my veins
His lies have become my chains