Читать книгу Stony the Road - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 16

the moon is rolled up for

sleep and our dreams are

troubled by the sound of

shouting on the White House

lawn, the rackets on the small

town streets, the corrupt ideas

of pious hearts and the faces

God dares not to see. tonight,

tears wash us clean while the

slow hold of darkness roves

around cursing at the light that

shines in our children’s sweet

chocolate faces. tomorrow, we

will awaken within the four walls

of the country’s hate, kept from

choice white spaces, trembling

at the image of a cropped-hair

Christ descending from the steeple

of respectable wealthy churches

and wondering how exactly does

God bless this America to which

our kids too sing? Does anyone hear

the varied carols in the nation’s

voice, anymore? Does anyone

hear black, brown, yellow and

red faces sing about freedom

and equality too? beloved country

how long will your costly promises

bleed? what will history say about

the disfigured wrong skin bodies

left by white hate to rot with nooses

fixed to their necks? beloved country

I am the murdered, assaulted, raped

and wronged history your very own

God will tell you is blessed!