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Rhapsody in Harlem
Beyond a dim proscenium,
The faces resemble moonlight
Over Chinese landscapes—
And the vacant prose
Of western dime novels.
Shall they divine messages,
Written by sea-breeze, among
Languors of wild grass?
With squinted eyes,
Inherited from grandparents'
Old photo-albums,
They cannot understand
An apple's sanguine complexion,
Succumbed to autumn—
Or the beautiful iridescence
Within crow feathers.
But, hush—as the pianist
Finishes his solo, and dances
Around the ensemble.
The faces resemble moonlight
Over Chinese landscapes—
And the vacant prose
Of western dime novels.
Shall they divine messages,
Written by sea-breeze, among
Languors of wild grass?
With squinted eyes,
Inherited from grandparents'
Old photo-albums,
They cannot understand
An apple's sanguine complexion,
Succumbed to autumn—
Or the beautiful iridescence
Within crow feathers.
But, hush—as the pianist
Finishes his solo, and dances
Around the ensemble.
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