When we teach children how to hate with no sympathy, we sew the seeds that grow strange fruit.
A perfect noose is smartly thrown over a tree branch and pulled tightly by an older man with dark tan complexion, during a hazy afternoon. We next see him standing beside to a tree swing while his son stumbles over the hillcrest, towards him. A tender moment is shared between father and son followed with a long gaze at each other before the father heads downhill.
The son stares upward and is caught off-guard by a passerby, who’s a boy about the same age but of fern green complexion. Out of curiosity, they sit next to each other on the swing but the tan boy notices the green complexion rubbing off the strange boy and onto him. When the father returns, the green boy is startled and runs off, leaving the father teaching his son to wipe off the green with a handkerchief.
The next time the boys meet, the tan boy shows ill will towards the green boy by shoving him and wiping his own hand with a handkerchief. For what seems like days that have passed, the green boy is nowhere in sight, until one evening he returns to the swing, greeted with an inviting gesture from the tan boy.
A perfect noose is smartly thrown over a tree branch and pulled tightly by a young boy with dark tan complexion, late in the evening. A moonlit shadow of the tree swing and the green boy, hanging by the noose, is cast down onto the tan boy, as he looks up to review his handiwork. As the tan boy gleefully pendulates on his tree swing, free from the nuisance, green blood drips onto him and he’s covered from head-to-toe, at which time, his father returns with axe in-hand and scowl on his face. Does the father know that it’s his son on the tree swing?