The voice of a saxaphone
On a rooftop
In midnight Harlem.
I am
The homeless huddled
Against a bitter wind
Beneath a cold grey bridge.
I am the wail of a dying infant
In a famine plagued country
And the cry of the bereaved the wounded
In Northern Ireland and America and other
Terrorist-ridden nations.
I am the anger
Which knows no bounds
And which will not condone nor look away
From injustice and persecution and pain.
I serve no establishment,
Bend the knee to no clerical potentate,
Or self-proclaimed poobah
Or need reason for empathy
With all mankind.
I am mankind
And all mankind is a part of me;
Many colored threads in the fabric
Of life
From the loom of the Master Weaver.
Let there be peace where there is strife,
Love where there is hatred and bloodshed,
Joy and hope where there is despair,
And a better world to come.