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african american poetry

stuff of the moon
my soul is a dark ploughed field
therefore i may not
in your arms was still delight
here falls no light
beneath the warrior's helm
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
do you remember
storm
have we no shame?
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
i never knew the earth had so much gold
to clothe the fiery thought

 



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