I am ashamed As I listen to the sound Of my own words- Words that are the children Of cold regions Of northern, gray, cruel Killing inventions.
I fear that my words Are impotent; That they cannot Tell you about the Great, raging, screaming fire That burns deep within me. Surely, you must be laughing At the sound of smoke.
I pray that you will understand What is in my eyes when you look there; That you will know in your soul its Promise Like the star that guides your journey, Like the raindrops that will fall On your lips.
I want you to sit With me for a long time and Tell me who you are-- What pain, What struggle, What hope, Has brought you in front of me? Perhaps it is time for you To pluck the ripe joy From my own ancient and silent wishes.
When my daily world begins I get in my car- Its radio blaring Limp Bizkit Godsmack Bach- On my way to corporate- and the bleak colour of my skin- America, And I take a bite of my Crisp, cold apple Like Eve, I want to know I want to Know I want to Taste The other fruits Of your other America.
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