POET: What have I to do with the beauty of the morning and
the evening Or the enchantments of the seasons. Until the songs of those who possess their own souls be
heard? How shall I declare the singing of birds Until everywhere there is the laughter of children? How shall I publish the march of the Night Until everywhere the breasts of the mothers Are full for the children? Shall I watch with delight The whirling skirts of the Rain, Which comes down the hills, Flaunting her diaphanous draperies, Or shall I be glad with the new-bom buds Which, before the palpitating bosom of Spring, weave
veils of verdure? How can I, seeing Poverty, rejoice in the shrilling of
grasshoppers. Crickets and cicadas, little unseen poets, Which chant the passion of Summer, Lying pale in the arms of overtaking Autumn? Shall I concern myself with the distant stars And the hushed murmur of the amorous leaves by night? Shall I stand with young lovers in the enfolding darkness. Or listen to the songs of lovers who beget new slaves? I know that the wings of their love are broken. I know that their love is defiled by priests. Shall I shrill like the feeble voice of the katydid, Or chirp a querulous tune,
Like a blackbird clinging to a cat-tail above a marsh. While children are begotten of Poverty On the dry breasts of mothers?
TRUTH: Civilization! Moloch insatiable!
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