This is a poem about slaves I had to make for school. I had to translate it to English manually, so there are problems. It comes from the heart (even thought only blood comes from the heart):

The black man works, (What is the American correct term for this that isn't African-American?)


and doesn't receive.

The white man relaxes,


and receives.

Receives the sweat given by his slave,

Receives the warmth of a cup of coffee.

Some say this is justice,

I say this is cold.

A cold cup of coffee,

that wasn't drank by anyone,

Anyone that, at least,

worked for it,

But by those who

made the other their slaves,

Those who stopped at nothing,

To get a warm cup of coffee.

Those who lost their humanity,

Those who died,

killed by their own ignorance.

Notes from Author: In Brazil, slaves we're used in the coffee market.

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