The Speaking Flower
A flower grew on tropical soil
its petals waxen white,
its centur crimson;
the people knelt
and smelt her
intoxicating fragrance
and then felt
mysteriously - free.

Soon the flower
was transplanted
onto yonder shores,
it blossomed,
sprouted limbs,
swaying in the wind,
it breathed the breeze
of liberty.

One day,
the flower returned;
striking her origina soil
her clours ignited;
from her petals
crimson rose enflamed:
‘even the searing heat
cannot erase the blood
on the street.’

White simply said:
‘I am truth;
how long will they use
brute force
to besmirch me?’

The people in
the tropical garden
hailed the
speaking flower,
but the dour vines
choked and encompassed it,
till it was no longer free.

It plucked the flower
and placed it
in a throttled
bottle-neck vase
and here the flower remained,
for eleven years
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The Blind Boy

O say what is that thing call'd Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; what are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy! You talk of wondrous things you see, you say the sun shines bright, I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or ningt? My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me twere alwaya day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with pattence I can bear A loss I ne're can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy; Whilst thus I sing ,I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. C.CIBBER

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