Can you see the hunger written on the faces of the people?
They are mute.
They cannot see themselves,
And no one breaks the code of silence.
Let the dead bones lie in their graves.
The gettysburgs, the teaparties in boston, the morning stroll of
the Blacks to lincoln’s shrine—they are over.
Let dead men lie.

“No, no do not wipe away the tears.
We should never have shed them.
We have so much—big houses, sturdy jobs, and families—
Let dead dreams lie.
Do not awaken them.
Do not break the silence.”

“Come; share our hunger; there is
more than enough for us all. Let us eat but never speak
of the silence. Our drink is our midnight tears—
our bread, daytime sighs.
‘Get drunk on our wine,’ ‘pull up a chair,’ ‘sit’—
say the faces gaunt and lean—‘come; share our grave.’ ”

Over the dead falls the earth and the leaves of autumn—
The Mondays, and Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays—
Saturday, Sunday—the days of the week, the weeks of the year
The years of the hungry people with gaunt, lean faces.

Here comes the accountant of the dead to plump a cheek
Raise a lip, part the hair.
He hears the final words beyond death—the antidote is in his ear—
But he has sworn to the code and is silent. I will not break it.
He sighs and wets a midnight pillow, too, and will kiss
The autumn leaves and breathe the dust of the earth.
Someone told me so, and I believed them.

Where do the hungry faces go? Who makes a joke, jumps around
Like a clown, to make the gauntness smile? If there were such a circus,
Why don’t I see a line out front?

The past is against the code. Do not remember, it says.
Remember, and feel, feel, and you will know your hunger
And eat of the Forbidden Fruit. Silence is the code—
No past and no future—only now.
Let dead dreams lie in graves in the ground—
Let grave-diggers come and burry them deep,
So the heart cannot find them—not now, not never.

“Wave at us, please—
wave at us, the people with hungry faces.”