From: rjwill6@pbsdts.sdcrc.pacbell.com (Rod Williams)
Subject: "On the Pulse of Morning"
Originator: rjwill6@pbsdts.sdcrc.pacbell.com
Organization: Pacific * Bell, San Ramon, California
Date: Thu, 21 Jan 1993 18:49:02 GMT

By special request...

        On the Pulse of Morning
            by Maya Angelou

        A Rock, a River, a Tree
        Hosts to species long since departed,
        Marked the mastodon,
        The dinosaur, who left dried 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 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 to us today, you may stand upon me,
        But do not hide your face.
        	
        Across the wall of the world,
        A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
        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 Rock were one.
        Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
        Brow and when you yet knew you still
        Knew nothing.
        The River sang 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, the Native American, the Sioux,
        The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
        The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
        The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher
        The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
        They hear.  They all hear
        The speaking of the Tree.
        
        They hear the first and last of every Tree
        Speak to humankind today.  Come to me, here beside the River.
        Plant yourself beside the River.
        
        Each of you, descendant of some passed
        On traveler, has been paid for.
        You, who gave me my first name, you,
        Pawnee, Apache, 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 Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
        You, the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Crow, bought,
        Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
        Praying for a dream.
        Here, root yourselves beside me.
        I am that 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, but if faced
        With courage, need not be lived again.
        
        Lift up your eyes upon
        This 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 a new beginning.
        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 and 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 and into
        Your brother's face, your country
        And say simply
        Very simply
        With hope --
        Good morning.

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rod williams -=- pacific bell -=- san ramon, ca -=- rjwill6@pacbell.com
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