What does it matter if they are black they live in golden rays. They are the salts of this soil; the sun burning over their heads is their magnificent crown. They have muscles. Don’t you know? And when those muscles wake up and flow forward like flood, their power can be known – you may think they are a handful of clay but I am with them.
I make faces of gods with human clay. I sculpture the idol of man with the tool of pain – I have stringed my bow and I am searching for the target. You cannot read my mind until I strike.
Take heed, poetry is not just an art of spinning cut words from cotton. Poem in your hands is an instrument of flattery the poem in my hands is the roar of the Gorilla. Come before the flames of my fury then you shall know.
The athletic bodied god at the furnace is producing with every stroke of the hammer, angels of metal, guns , canons , daggers , spears and arrows. They are rushing out like armies from the worlds of the fire, spelling disasters to the actors who are freely romping around in the costumes of poets and leaders
Who can squeeze out the sun from the flag of revolution? Against the guns directed onto the people not only the people but even the barrel its iron backbone will rebel and the finger on the trigger too will rebel.
My muscles are humming the chorus of revolution. My hands are rising to wring the enemy’s throat like a wet towel.