…………..
Host to species long
since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who
left dry tokens
Of their sojourn
here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of
their of their hastening
doom
Is lost in the gloom
of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock
cries out to us, clearly,
forcefully,
Come, you may stand
upon my
Back and face your
distant destiny,
But seek no haven in
my shadow.
I will give you no
hiding place down here.
You, created only a
little lower than
The angels, have
crouched too long in
The bruising
darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in
ignorance.
Your mouths spelling
words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out
today, you may stand on
me,
But do not hide your
face.
Across the wall of
the world,
A river sings a
beautiful song,
Come rest here by my
side.
Each of you a
bordered country,
Delicate and
strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting
perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles
for profit
Have left collars of
waste upon
My shore, currents
of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call
you to my riverside,
If you will study
war no more.
Come, clad in peace
and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to
me when I
And the tree and stone
were one.
Before cynicism was
a bloody sear across
your brow
And when you yet
knew you still knew
nothing.
The river sings and
sings on.
There is a true
yearning to respond to
The singing river
and the wise rock.
So say the Asian,
the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and
Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the
Muslim, the French, the
Greek,
The Irish, the
Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the
Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the
homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all
hear
The speaking of the
tree.
Today, the first and
last of every tree
Speaks to humankind.
Come to me, here
beside the river.
Plant yourself
beside me, here beside the
river.
Each of you,
descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been
paid for.
You, who gave me my
first name,
You Pawnee, Apache
and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation,
who rested with me,
Then forced on
bloody feet,
Left me to the
employment of other seekers-
Desperate for gain,
starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the
Swede, the German, the
Scot...
You the Ashanti, the
Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold,
stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root
yourselves beside me.
I am the tree
planted by the river,
Which will not be
moved.
I, the rock, I the
river, I the tree
I am yours- your
passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces,
you have a piercing need
For this bright
morning dawning for you.
History, despite its
wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived,
and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived
again.
Lift up your eyes
upon
The day breaking for
you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children,
men,
Take it into the
palms of your hands.
Mold it into the
shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt
it into
The image of your
most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds
new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded
forever
To fear, yoked
eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans
forward,
Offering you space
to place new steps of
change.
Here, on the pulse
of this fine day
You may have the
courage
To look up and out
upon me,
The rock, the river,
the tree, your country.
No less to Midas
than the mendicant.
No less to you now
than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of
this new day
You may have the
grace to look up and out
And into your
sister's eyes,
Into your brother's
face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
by
Maya Angelou
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