From: ra01+@andrew.cmu.edu (Rikiya Asano)
Newsgroups: soc.culture.japan
Subject: Poem
Date: 26 Jan 93 14:13:28 GMT
Article-I.D.: andrew.kfNRCcy00iV1E7WbMK
	<1993Jan26.003047.13783@omrongw.wg.omron.co.jp>
Organization: Masters student, Civil Engineering, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA

Friends<

.

>              Maya Angelou's Inaugural Poem
> 
>   A Rock, A River, A Tree
>   Hosts to species long since departed,
>   Marked the mastodon.
> 
>   The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
>   Of their sojourn here
>   On our planet floor,
>   Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
>   Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
> 
>   But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
>   Come, you may stand upon my
>   Back and face your distant destiny,
>   But seek no haven in my shadow.
> 
>   I will give you no more hiding place down here.
> 
>   You, created only a little lower than
>   The angels, have crouched too long in
>   The bruising darkness,
>   Have lain too long
>   Face down in ignorance.
> 
>   Your mouths spilling words
>   Armed for slaughter.
> 
>   The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
>   But do not hide your face.
> 
>   Across the wall of the world,
>   A River sings a beautiful song,
>   Come rest here by my side.
> 
>   Each of you a bordered country,
>   Delicate and strangely made proud,
>   Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
> 
>   Your armed struggles for profit
>   Have left collars of waste upon
>   My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
> 
>   Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
>   If you will study war no more. Come,
> 
>   Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
>   The Creator gave to me when I and the
>   Tree and the stone were one.
> 
>   Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
>   Brow and when you yet knew you still
>   Knew nothing.
> 
>   The River sings and sings on.
> 
>   There is a true yearning to respond to
>   The singing River and the wise Rock.
> 
>   So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
>   The African and Native American, the Sioux,
>   The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
>   The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
>   The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
>   The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
>   They hear. They all hear
>   The speaking of the Tree.
> 
>   Today, the first and last of every Tree
>   Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
> 
>   Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
> 
>   Each of you, descendant of some passed
>   On traveller, has been paid for.
> 
>   You, who gave me my first name, you
>   Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
>   Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
>   Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
>   Other seekers--desperate for gain,
>   Starving for gold.
> 
>   You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot ...
>   You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
>   Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
>   Praying for a dream.
> 
>   Here, root yourselves beside me.
> 
>   I am the Tree planted by the River,
>   Which will not be moved.
> 
>   I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
>   I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
> 
>   Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
>   For this bright morning dawning for you.
> 
>   History, despite its wrenching pain,
>   Cannot be unlived, and if faced
>   With courage, need not be lived again.
> 
>   Lift up your eyes upon
>   The day breaking for you.
> 
>   Give birth again
>   To the dream.
> 
>   Women, children, men,
>   Take it into the palms of your hands.
> 
>   Mold it into the shape of your most
>   Private need. Sculpt it into
>   The image of your most public self.
>   Lift up your hearts
>   Each new hour holds new chances
>   For new beginnings.
> 
>   Do not be wedded forever
>   To fear, yoked eternally
>   To brutishness.
> 
>   The horizon leans forward,
>   Offering you space to place new steps of change.
>   Here, on the pulse of this fine day
>   You may have the courage
>   To look up and out upon me, the
>   Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
> 
>   No less to Midas than the mendicant.
> 
>   No less to you now than the mastodon then.
> 
>   Here on the pulse of this new day
>   You may have the grace to look up and out
>   And into your sister's eyes, into
>   Your brother's face, your country
>   And say simply
>   Very simply
>   With hope
>   Good morning.
> 
> 
> 

 
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