It Is No Use Painting The Foot

Beware, My Body And My Soul, Beware Above All Of Crossing Your Arms And Assuming The Sterile Attitude Of The Spectator, For Life Is Not A Spectacle, A Sea Of Griefs Is Not A Proscenium, And A Man Who Wails Is Not A Dancing Bear.

Africa, Help Me To Go Home, Carry Me Like An Aged Child In Your Arms. Undress Me And Wash Me. Strip Me Of All Of These Garments, Strip Me As A Man Strips Off Dreams When The Dawn Comes. . . .

I Am Talking About Societies Drained Of Their Essence, Cultures Trampled Underfoot, Institutions Undermined, Lands Confiscated, Religions Smashed, Magnificent Artistic Creations Destroyed, Extraordinary Possibilities Wiped Out.

I Would Rediscover The Secret Of Great Communications And Great Combustions. I Would Say Storm. I Would Say River. I Would Say Tornado. I Would Say Leaf. I Would Say Tree. I Would Be Drenched By All Rains, Moistened By All Dews. I Would Roll Like Frenetic Blood On The Slow Current Of The Eye Of Words Turned Into Mad Horses Into Fresh Children Into Clots Into Curfew Into Vestiges Of Temples Into Precious Stones Remote Enough To Discourage Miners. Whoever Would Not Understand Me Would Not Understand Any Better The Roaring Of A Tiger.

Out Of The Sky, The Birds, The Parrots, The Bells, Silk, Cloth, And Drums, Out Of Sundays Dancing, Children's Words And Love Words, Out Of Love For The Little Fists Of Children, I Will Build A World, My World With Round Shoulders.