Rivers Flow

Death becomes beautiful in the morning

And I stand with this rose in prayer,

Let the rivers flow in Harlem

Where my heart's prayer lies;

And the wickedness of sorrow

Dies hard in the wilderness

And mourning has no winter

For mourning is mourning,

At last the rivers flow upon faces,

Faces I've never seen!

And the dichotomy of this manner

Rises up to the top...

I never want for this to be hard

I beg for your intentions to be fair,

And rivers flow on the street

Let the people drown in their bliss.