To be borne
on the dark spear,
like the open birth of a wound.
To travel the unique exodus of opportunity
to burn on one's flame
to the very last spark,
on the flame of a reverence
found by the slaves
in the dust of the way,
thus red and coquettish,
to bloom on the thorn-bush of blood
and thus tall and proud,
to pass through the scourge-field of degradation
and to reach the extreme of hatred …
Oh, whom am I speaking of?
The living with no reason we are
conscious to reason of their death they.