Rhythms |
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| Cicadas noisy in the trees, Reggae in the next room, Voices singing far off... |
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| Are they the same voices I just heard? Or does the sound linger only in my mind? |
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| The Struggle goes on, far away, Thousands of miles away. Now it has come here. To me. |
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| I have been touched deeply. I cry at the films: Mandela, The Last Grave at Dimbaza, Sitting amidst those who have seen it, have lived it, Confirmed by them, Made real by their knowing. |
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| Tears. Unwelcome. With Anger. Uncontrollable. |
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| Lash out - at a world so cruel, So uncaring, So full of hate and fear, And ugliness. |
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| And then the songs begin. The rhythms. The spirit. The spirit lives. |
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| In the music. In the rhythms. In the souls of the people. |
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| The Struggle will be won. Someday. Somehow. |
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| I feel it in the music. | ||
Written during the summer of 1987 when I was on the
Resident Staff for the South African
Orientation Program at
Denison University in Granville, Ohio. Copyright@ 1998 Sunny.