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AND TELL ME POET, CAN LOVE EXIST IN SLAVERY?


Come then Poet, and sing
To me a TRUE SONG
Of white doves circling the horizon-
Of Guitars strumming the evening calm.

Can we forget, poet,
The right and wrong
Done, the gushing blood,
The broken bone
Shattering the moon-night,
The exiled son,
The fugitive daughter?

O Poet, your tongue
is split, and as still
as the Stone
In the Belly of the Great Mother.
She has always known:
Love and Freedom are One!

(All the rest is, at best-
A melted ice cream cone.)

Written by Etheridge Knight (1931-1991)

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