Maya Angelou Poem

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No sound falls
from the moaning sky
No scowl wrinkles
the evening pool
   The stars lean down
   A stony brilliance
   While birds fly.

The market leers
its empty shelves
Streets bare bosoms
to scanty cars
   This bed yawns
   beneath the weight
   of our absent selves.

The Mothering Blackness
Let's Majeste

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