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| "Goodbye is too good a word, so I'll just say fare thee well."
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| you are so much more than your acquired
fears, dogmas, age-old beliefs, and superstitions
you are so much more than the child
of your upbringing
that is just the manger
you were born in
the leaves have already fallen
why not join them
to be reborn
in spring
your mechanical ways
have become dry and brittle
they will not fall by themselves
you must let them go
stop feeding them
deny them sunlight
death is seasonal
and the life within
that is waiting to be reborn
cannot blossom
unless you surrender
to letting winter
take its course
- Saul Williams
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| All these things in my life, dem a stain to remove
Beauty in our makeup, peace in a gun
Cut this picture of myself, in resistance prove
At least one of these colors does bleed and run
One of these colors does bleed and run
It's the war inside of us all.
- Strike Anywhere
Antidote
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| In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travelers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.
-Edgar Allan Poe, The Haunted Palace
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