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THE WORLD,
By the Grace of God
True, though now it seems strange, when
I look back,
Relate the times which once were mine.
I see the men from Columbia
Easy in their thousand-dollar suits
With their handsome shirts and special
neckties,
And me riding as a guest
In the back-seat comfort of their
limousines,
I recall those gents had super-cool,
Castilian accents.
I remember, too, those, my other
buddies,
Back, at the moment they were standing
tall,
And we, the boys, were out on the town;
We had ticket to the premier, opening
night of The World.
And though we dwelt in Village East,
We were packin’, packin’,
Might have been figures playing cowboy,
Ready for justice out in the Old West
I hear the voice of that dazzle, the
black woman,
Who, though she sang backup,
Her timbre commandeered the band.
She sang above the whirling electronic
rifts,
Above the sound, which guitars and
piano hammered,
A harmony, then to a counter-melody,
A contralto with a volume which reached
right up, it hit
The wall behind the last row of the
ballroom balcony.
I recollect the people scream, “Oh,
Sister!”
I smell the spray paint, fresh upon the
scrim.
It stupefies me how that past, it still
reigns,
Though much, so much else
In the run against time tumbles and
disappears.
Right before me, I see, see, the images
of the dead,
I had not thought death had undone so
many.
And for those who survived, when truth
is said,
Hear it, hear it!
Let it reverberate among the circle of
friends,
Declare it in the rooms and down the
corridors,
Where the living have stacked the
chairs,
Or have folded them and set them aside
In order to clear the way and let
others see safe passage.
Let it be known, there we go, lost,
dead,
But for the Grace, for it is Grace,
alone,
Which brings us hope of daily reprieve,
Each morning after morning, a day at a
time.
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