Maya Angelou
20 January 1993
A
Rock, A
River, A
Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the
mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their
sojourn here
On our
planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and
face your distant destiny,
But seek no
haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more
hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The
angels, have
crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have
lain too long
Face down in
ignorance.
Your mouths
spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a
beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet
thrusting perpetually under
siege.
Your armed struggles for
profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of
debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in
peace and I will sing the songs
The
Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before
cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the
Asian, the
Hispanic, the
Jew
The
African and
Native American, the
Sioux,
The
Catholic, the
Muslim, the
French, the
Greek
The
Irish, the
Rabbi, the
Priest, the
Sheikh,
The
Gay, the
Straight, the
Preacher,
The
privileged, the
homeless, the
Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to
humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you,
descendant of some passed
On
traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee,
Apache and
Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on
bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--
desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the
Turk, the
Swede, the
German, the
Scot,
You the
Ashanti, the
Yoruba, the
Kru, bought
Sold,
stolen, arriving on a
nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your
Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a
piercing need
For this bright morning
dawning for you.
History, despite its
wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the
palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your
most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The
image of your most public self.
Lift up your
hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For
new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear,
yoked eternally
To
brutishness.
The
horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the
pulse of this fineday
You may have the
courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to
Midasthan the
mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the
pulse of this new day
You may have the
grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your
brother's face, your country
And say
simply
Very simply
With
hope
Good morning.