Langston Hughes on Maundy Thursday
When dreams die,
they land with a dull thud like prizefighter, down for the count never to stand again. Age knocks most of us out with the push of youth coming behind us, and we defer, deafening our ears to visions’ music until life lies like a beach splayed out against the sky’s ocean with the stinging slap of cruel waves in ebb and flow. What’s more real-- idealism’s naked sunburned glory or pragmatism’s obdurate sideways dance toward survival like crabs upended in time’s surf? I don’t know. Instead, I avert eyes, pass by on the other side, like any good priest, avoiding words stripped of meaning. For surely Hughes knew: all dreams die eventually and the broken-winged dove cries and limps, unsure of how--and whether-- to go on. ©2010, Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved. |