Page:Negro poets and their poems (IA negropoetstheirp00kerl).pdf/141

Rh They still his groans with fiendish shout, Where flesh streams red they ply the knout. Thus sons of men feed lust to kill And yet, oh God! they’re brothers still. They build a pyre of torch and flame While Justice weeps in deepest shame. E’en Death in pity bows its head, Yet ’midst these men no prayer is said. They gather up charred flesh and bone— Mementos—boasting brave deed done. They sip of gore their souls to fill; Drink deep of blood their hands did spill. Go tell the world what men have done Who prate of God and yet have none; Think of themselves as wholly good, Blaspheme the name of brotherhood; Who hearken not as brothers cry For brother’s chance to live and die. To keep a demon’s murder tryst They’d rend the sepulcher of Christ.

I am an Iconoclast. I break the limbs of idols And smash the traditions of men. I am an Anarchist. I believe in war and destruction— Not in the killing of men, But the killing of creed and custom.