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Across the Ocean's rolling expanse I send you a song, as it were a seagull, oh John!... Its flight will be long to the Land Of the Free -- for it's now doubtful whether it will arrive... -- Or whether, as a ray from your noble grey hair, White -- on an empty scaffold alights: That your hangman's son with child's hand May cast stones at the guest seagull. Then the ropes will tell whether Your bare neck is unyielding; Then you will try the ground under your heels, That you may kick away this debased planet -- And the dirt from beneath your feet, as a frightened reptile Vanishes -- (ind) Then will they utter: "Hanged..." -- They will speak and wonder among themselves, could this be a lie? Then, before they place the hat on your face, That America, having recognized her son, Will not shout at her twelve stars: "Extinguish the feigned fires of my crown, Night falls -- a black night with the face of a Negro!" Then, before Kosciuszko's phantom and Washington's Quake -- accept the beginning of the song, oh John... For while the song matures, sometimes a man will die, But before the song dies, a nation will first arise. -translated by Walter Whipple |