By William Blake
A little black thing among the snow,
Crying “weep! ‘weep!” in notes of woe!
“Where are thy father and mother? say?”
“They are both gone up to the church to pray.
Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil’d among the winter’s snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King,
Who make up a heaven of our misery.”
Poet Bio
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The Ecchoing Green
The sun does arise,
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The merry bells ring
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The sky-lark and thrush,
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On the Ecchoing Green.
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Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
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In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
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It twirls the light-up fidget spinner
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Meanwhile
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When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.
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From the Sky
When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.
Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).
A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).
Teens are writing love...
Being
Wake up, greet the sun, and pray.
Burn cedar, sweet grass, sage—
sacred herbs to honor the lives we’ve been given,
for we have been gifted these ways since the beginning of time.
Remember, when you step into the arena of your life,
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