He would not go, not cease, not die
Despite the pain that he had seen
Despite the brutality he had seen
Despite his body cuts and boisterous bruises
He walked the twenty years to docks
Where boats brought civil goods
Iike flour to the sleepy bread-man
Like rivets to the grand blank towers
His children grew to hate old novel words
But he kept walking, kept mumbling to his pen
Because he had one last fleeting vision
One image found like silver springs In quiet wood
The whale was gone; no one had cared
The negro was gone; no one was moved enough to cry
The scrivener was ghost, impoverished fool
The baby boy was all that could survive
He saw him clear some nights
He heard the child's chipped tones, broken by hesitation
Billy, he wept, Billy hold to your heart
And then he let them hang him
RAB
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem