I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.
I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don't like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.
When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and
took it in silence, all those years and then
kicked you out, suddenly, and her
kids loved it. Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when
Nixon's helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time. We were tickled
to think of your office taken away,
your secretaries taken away,
your lunches with three double bourbons,
Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on--that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords.
We are the Little Folk--we!
The world is sadly sick, they say,
And plagued by woe and pain.
But look! How looms my garden gay,
With blooms in golden reign!
With lyric music in the air,
Of joy fulfilled in song,
I can't believe that anywhere
Is hate and harm and wrong.
A paradise my garden is,
Take up the White man's burden --
Send forth the best ye breed --
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild --
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.
Take up the White Man's burden --
Dim lit, damp and distant corner
torn from dream of vapor’s fold.
Slow descent to worlds divided,
nothing hot and nothing cold.
Long ago this soul forgotten,
cast off in the ides of youth.
Un-forgiven deeds left hiding
beneath the stone of burden’s proof
It’s not hard to be happy
You know how to be happy
Smiles and kids
And a house to live in
It’s not hard to write
It’s not hard to think
It’s not hard to believe in
It took me one day
to mourn you
and 3 years
to mourn myself
Screaming rumours frightened the wings
out of pregnant vultures — and the city hall
shook with their sudden flightlessness.
Who could have done this —?
Projecting such banner of hate!
Rumours are spread with red dancing tongues —
embers where loose talks are brewed, and
with the intention of relegating the village to
the back of the jungle league.
Shall I compare thee to a winter's night?
Thou art far darker and more cold.
Winter nights oft are long and bereft of light
and slippery roads lead to deaths untold.
Icy winds are another frightful thing,
when gray skies wrap us in a frigid shroud,
but at least we're assured of coming spring
when the warm sun will again shine proud.
But thy cold touch creates an open sore,
such that time and distance can never heal,