To interrupt the concatenations that stick

A bird sings in the morn light
four chirps and a brief silence, a blight
of line, allow us not be bound to detest or wish
or black or white
or day or nighttime.
Allow the semilunar Moon pealing offly its reflected sun
of our working paws or running pes alight.
with the startling seisms that course our body when
pealed roaring strikes.
Unison voices swinge together like
school-children
halting a end at a soccer lucifer, bright
with ruby-red confronted finding,
to love, to respire,
to experience the gelidity wind race upwards our dorsums,
against our unavailing arms
that battle against the slumber and cold,
against rainfall and lethargy that odd
finding to believe
in that face
a jeune fille 's smiling of slight alleviation
a little boy 's fist
To overturn that bristly garland,
that Stalinism of inconsiderateness.
The right to hale our style
through walls of hatred,
that sunrise on a morn hill -the singular belief
regardless how little
that we can defeat the division and discord
between here and there and someways encounter
therein common journeying.
That staff poking on the land
like an undaunted pulsation,
a steady knocking of ground at the pes
of our those lapidated human statues, shutted bosoms walled away
with incredulity
in the sorcerous, the transcendent, the over
coming of that which can not be.
That new cockcrow, the epoch of every greased
tireless mentum, shrilled venas pumping
through every flexed arm. The hope that we
can arise above what we are in pieces
in mortal 's nestling 's half-peeled scalp to seek
that aureate handclasp or stolen buss.
A tomorrow that agitates without bounds,
without age, gender, or color.
Unsteady as an aspen tree
or a wave of wind through some new harvest of wheat.
A tomorrow that accompanies love,
brotherhood and belief
that those who make not now presume now share our lingua
might someday verbalize
tomorrow 's orange freshness
of heavy peace.
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