White tiger I hear your
Hum on the drone
Flowing on beds of
Fresh snow on springs
Flowing back to the nether
source,
The truth is an empty
bowl of rice
Those cathode men who cage
you shall melt
In the summer sun,
For they are ugly bars
Who echo the sting of
Unholy rivers in their dried cracked
Bed.
from The Ancient Rain
by Bob Kaufman
No comments:
Post a Comment