a piece of meat lost in cabbage stew it will be found it will be found If we must die at birth, pray we return with our birth-cord still uncut our oneness with Earth undefiled Last night on the village square a man bumped into my conscience and cursed our god. I refused to retort, knowing how hard it is for man to wake a man from false slumber Our conscience would not be hurt by threats of lunatics a pinch of salt lost in cabbage stew it will be found the tongue will feel it out We heard their cries but thought of dogs and ghosts. Ghosts gone mad at dogs who would not give our village a chance to sleep, to dream Now they say we have to die These brand-new men gone slightly drunk on public wine they say we have to die Yet if we must die at birth, pray we return with our birth-cord still uncut our name still to be found in the book of souls Across the memory of a thousand agonies our death shall gallop into the conference hall of a million hopes a lone delegate at reshuffling of destinies a piece of hope lost in public tears it will be found it will be found And if we must die at birth, pray we return with -- But we were not born to be killed by threats of lunatics The maimed panther is no playmate for antelopes | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ODE, PARAPHRASED: THE CUP by ANACREON THE DESPONDING SOUL'S WISH by JOHN BYROM THE BAREFOOT BOY by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER FELDMESTEN OR MEASURING THE GRAVES by ALTER ABELSON HEAUTONTIMOROUMENOS by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE BETWEEN SLEEP AND WAKING by MATHILDE BLIND THE WORLD'S RECORD by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |