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african american poetry

no porto de york novo
não seja falso
eu v todas as sagacidades humanas
com vermelho do sangue dos bordos e coração da pedra
a noite era preta e drear
você recorda
para prestar atenção o dia inteiro à onda azul ondular e quebrar
eu não posso dizê-lo agora
limps com parar o ritmo doloroso
como uma vela branca
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
abaixo do helm do guerreiro
ainda treze anos
flores dos bebês

 



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