Carl Sandburg

(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967 / Illinois)

Dusty Doors - Poem by Carl Sandburg

Child of the Aztec gods,
how long must we listen here,
how long before we go?

The dust is deep on the lintels.
The dust is dark on the doors.
If the dreams shake our bones,
what can we say or do?

Since early morning we waited.
Since early, early morning, child.
There must be dreams on the way now.
There must be a song for our bones.

The dust gets deeper and darker.
Do the doors and lintels shudder?
How long must we listen here?
How long before we go?


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Read poems about / on: child, song, dark, dream, children



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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