How dear are the blackish hours when by
A beautiful soul I pass at dark night,
So clear is the judgment of the third eye
When free of misleading faces and light.
How dear are the bright hours of the day
In which I deem what my vision adores,
To keep what might inflict the pain at bay
To shut the wrong, and open the right doors.
To deem my heart, to deem my soul and aim
Is to know me much, to explore my well,
Good or bad, righteous or wrong, strong or lame,
Is beyond what my skin colour can tell.
How I ponder with much love and delight
The words of writers, whether black or white.
