A Rock,
A River,
A
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry
Of their sojourn
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower
The angels, have crouched too long
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for
Have left collars of waste
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the
The Creator gave to me when
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear.
They all
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every
Speaks to humankind.
Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee,
Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers—Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot…You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock,
I the river,
I the treeI am yours—your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes
The day breaking for you.
Give birth
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your
Private need.
Sculpt it
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded
To fear, yoked
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine
You may have the
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new
You may have the grace to look up and
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your
And say
Very
With
Good morning.
This was written for and read at the Innauguration of President Clinton in 1993.
