
*Illustration reference: Photograph of Walt Whitman
c. 1891 (negative); printed later
Attributed to Thomas Eakins (American, 1844–1916)
I hear America crying, the strained anguish I hear
The heartache of a woman, the hard fist coming
She who was once blithe and strong
The belaboured teacher, the harried lecturer
Pierced by rebuke of oppression’s prong
The proud immigrant laments, the hateful rhetoric cements
The war veteran’s fight undone, wrecked what their sacrifice won
Youth, once the idolized ideal, the incentive, the dears we held dear
We, the provider, the cautious chider, live with constant fear
They be cut down in lessons, our prized possessions, cowering in closets
While the legislator, the fixed law-makers, dither, prattle and posit
The relentless crying, untold dying, the will, once sure, demoralized
Each mourning what belonged to them, and to no one else
The day that dawned, won’t be restrained, the western sun, now loathe to rise
Crying, open-mouthed, rueful for what once was our better self…
Comentários