Though time has built an endless warp of suffering and pain the ancient dust of Africa is breaking down the chain can you hear the winds of change shifting through the brain the ancient dust of Africa makes diamonds in the falling rain
a message of hope to all parents Of the Third world child
Why is poetry dying when we still have the gift? If we still have water then we still have a ship. We can sail to the places these words take us. We are still shaken by the words that make us. Why should we let poetry die when there is so much to explore? If only people read it and discovered more.