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Countee Cullen (Каунти Каллен)


Simon the Cyrenian Speaks


He never spoke a word to me,
And yet He called my name;
He never gave a sign to me,
And yet I knew and came. 
At first I said, ”I will not bear
His cross upon my back;
He only seeks to place it there
Because my skin is black.”

But He was dying for a dream,
And He was very meek,
And in His eyes there shone a gleam
Men journey far to seek.

It was Himself my pity bought;
I did for Christ alone
What all of Rome could not have wrought
With bruise of lash or stone.



Countee Cullen's other poems:
  1. Harlem Wine
  2. To Certain Critics
  3. Heritage
  4. Saturday’s Child
  5. To a Brown Boy


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