And when I write, I want the largest space,

Of such breadth, of such length as this world

Never had of forests nor virgin paper,

Where the words never were, their script accursed,

     but only now

                      Descending to cry, Freedom!
Then my hands should never feel there were walls

That grow their ominous lichen between my fingers,

Nor my elbows graze the wild beards of rocks

That cathedral my tribe wailing for their god,

     but only now

                      Descending without speech!
The words that never were create anew my race,

Their mornings stand clear where ancient skies cascade

Down the singing gorges of the wind. My hands

Draw again the map that alien voyages had wrecked,

     O long ago

                      Descending with Cross and Krag!
My elbows swing where rooms void their space,

And I laugh to see the weird syllables of speech

Open their abyss, and stride across the heartland

Of my people’s silences where their eyes pour

     like sunlight

                      Descending to claim the earth!
O when I write again, the words of any tongue

Shall find no tillage in our blood, nor my hands

Scruple to choke their weed, for first must they bleed

Their scripture in our solitude and yield to our

     scythe’s will

                      Descending to carve our heart.