Winter In America

 

I was neglectful yesterday not to make note of the passing of Gil Scott-Heron. He was only 62, and to my mind, the finest poet of the mid-20th century, rivaled only perhaps by Langston Hughes and Robert Frost.

From the Indians who welcomed the pilgrams

to the buffalo who once ruled the plains;
like the vultures circling beneath the dark clouds
looking for the rain/looking for the rain.

 

From the cities that stagger on the coast lines
in a nation that just can't take much more/
like the forest buried beneath the highways

never had a chance to grow/never had a chance
to grow.

 

It's winter, winter in america
and all of the healers have been killed or forced
away.

It's winter, winter in america
and ain't nobody fighting 'cause nobody knows
what to save.

The con-stitution was a noble piece of paper;
with Free Society they struggled but they died in
vain/
and now Democracy is ragtime on the corner
hoping that it rains/hoping that it rains.

And I've seen the robins perched in barren
treetops
watching last ditch racists marching across the
floor
and like the peace signs that melted in our
dreams
never had a chance to grow/never had a
chance to grow.

It's winter, winter in america
and all of the healers done been killed or put in
jail
it's winter, winter in america
and ain't nobody fighting 'cause nobody knows
what to save.