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By Antar S. K. Mberi
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Extra resources for A Song Out of Harlem
Moving on silent pistons of air song song of a deep river, woman woman like the nights after rain nothing could deny you their instruments and notes: not the pines, the sumacs, or birches not the play of rays dropping skirts on wet rocks not the crickets, the dying storm, or this river, woman enter the water, nude lover not night and the male odor of the woods not the beavered shadows relentlessly chewing away the trunks of trees and distant buildings nothing could deny you: song of my woman raging from this river fire black as Mississippi soil, woman nothing, oh nothing, nothing could deny you Even I, with my desolate baggage silent internal wars my urban battlefields, filled with rumbling dreams, crosses, medals of pale, pale smoke Even I can deny you nothing tonight our 0,.
IYlC4RAOOA. NYD AJYOOlA A SOlYO our 01" 1tARLDf/37 Brazil, New York, Cbile, Nicaragua, and Angola for l'Ieruda iIIUIl'Ieto The giant who. AJIf Wbat Do You Dream Of? 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!
Of love ... of conquest Just this song: of threads of pine smoke of Muskoka, and the Kipiwa spun into garments to wear when I cross the distance of these days a wind seeking shelter and enter you, a river before this dawn treads omnipotently upon the hills, from the birds to you sleeping beside your open window of hope waiting for me 56/ Nn'AII MlmRl sorro 01' A RIVf'Jt WOMAIY Song Of A River, Woman Night descends to this river shadows surprising its liquid mirror mosquitoes sinking to bloodwarm arms across from it all the pines wait on the west bank, hushed fully clad, listening I, too, wait, naked, watching for what I'm not sure: for a rare bird of fire to rage from this river, woman?
A Song Out of Harlem by Antar S. K. Mberi