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african american poetry

there is an hour of peaceful rest
there are three ways in which men take
with the meek, brown eyes
she limps with halting painful pace
they threw a stone, you threw a stone
i saw god. do you doubt it?
i do not pray for peace
this ancient silver bowl of mine
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
simply speaking
she heard the children playing in the sun
i had over-prepared the event

 



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