By Antar S. K. Mberi
Publication through Mberi, Antar S. ok.
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Extra info for A Song Out of Harlem
How little survives, Oshun We march home our wounded hearts on crutches emotions encased in casts of fear smiles crippled, laughter limping wrapped in bandages of ice tenderness arrives last, uncertain and reeking with liquor on its drunk's breath Ah love, buried weapon still within our reach we return scarred and silent with conquest carrying this hymn in our eyes: ay, love, the last oils of my love are yearning burning in this barren ground burning low, low, low way, way down ay, love, the last oils ...
What do you dream of! I dream of countries, arms around waists of continents, slapping five without bombs and cold wars tucked treacherously behind backs. What do you dream of? I dream of shoes and socks without holes or blood, of gardens without hate or the smell of flesh sizzling in a soup of chemicals in the shade; I dream baby-swollen bellies and bells ringing triumphantly What do you dream of! I dream a dance of human hearts limbs coupling in grass without uniforms, badges or bayonets under eyelids What do you dream of!
TO MI! R1 LlKl! A I'LOWBR GROWl'f fROM TIe Like A Flower Grown From Fire I want to keep you young lithe alive with a wave's full curve to your hips the moist green of a tendril a dark vine curling up stone digging deep into my breast into my soul filling me with your foliage I want to keep you young each morning in song in the encirclement of my arms I want you to give birth to you to see you singing in your shower of my joy in full sonor effervescent effulgent efflorescent foliar I want you young to feel my very ribs opening like the earth perpetually diurnally beneath your touch your gaze of sun and rain to feel you grow out of me each morning in song small trembling terribly green with love, my love in full fruit Ulm A I'LOWER OROWl't I'ROM I'IR/!