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FREEDOMWAYS FOURTH QUARTER 1966 that burst and vanish one against the other ere they touch the dull and broken edges of eroded human souls. They stand there gawking. Eyes hard against the wondrous, golden span that oratory built across the raw abyss that separates the status quo from Shangrila. So is their emptiness compounded as they cheer and frenzied fling their hats a moment . . . ere they grow silent and go weeping back to empty lives they have not left. RELEASE Come to me gently, O Death . . . Cool, with the comfort of evening Wipe from the rim of my brow The sweat of oppression and sorrow Fold on the wreck of my breast (That once heaved with suppressed emotion) Gnarled, ugly hands that have known Toil in the muck of life's trenches Hands that have toiled without pay Under the false lash of color Fold them together, O Death Upon my breast in peace. 324
Transcription Notes:
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Reopened for Editing 2024-02-09 16:47:54
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Reopened for Editing 2024-02-09 17:05:56