what does this mean.
to see walking men
wrapped in the color of death,
to hear from their tongue
such difficult syllables?
are they the spirits
of our hope
or the pale ghosts of our future?
who will believe the red road
will not run on forever?
who will believe
a tribe of ice might live
and we might not?

Lucille Clifton

Read poems about / on: believe, future, red, hope, death, running

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7/5/2008 6:45:13 PM. You Are Here: seeker of visions by Lucille Clifton