Thursday, January 26, 2012
The old voice of the ocean, the bird-chatter of little rivers,
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown to line their
From different throats intone one language.
So I believe if we were strong enough to listen without
Divisions of desire and terror
To the storm of the sick nations, the rage of the hunger-smitten
Those voices also would be found
Clean as a child's; or like some girl's breathing who dances
By the ocean-shore, dreaming of lovers.
image found here.