Like wind-up guitars the sound of Africa,
In no way does it prepare for the lofts
Of inner Bronx, result of the diaspora,
What they've been turned into, no longer soft,
But a flame of rage and Milar pure land,
Heaven's voice through inconceivable pain.
Or maybe it's the pain we understand
And heaven is the thing too far away.
And maybe it's this absence heaven craves,
The mourning for what's lost, the urge to save
What seemed to be real until it disappeared,
As if it was something, anything at all.
The retch of our senses, the unacceptable,
Must be gifts the distant heavens hold dear.
