Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/90

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Our wounds are different. Your white men

Are, after all, not gods indeed,

Nor able to make Christs again

Do good with bleeding. We who bleed. ..

(Stand off!) we help not in our loss!

We are too heavy for our cross,

And fall and crush you and your seed.

I fall, I swoon! I look at the sky:

The clouds are breaking on my brain;

I am floated along, as if I should die

Of liberty's exquisite pain—

In the name of the white child, waiting for me

In the death-dark where we may kiss and agree,

White men, I leave you all curse-free

In my broken heart's disdain!