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The Ballad of Nat Turner

Then fled, O brethren, the wicked juba
      and wandered wandered far
from curfew joys in the Dismal’s night.  
      Fool of St. Elmo’s fire
 
In scary night I wandered, praying,
      Lord God my harshener,  
speak to me now or let me die;
      speak, Lord, to this mourner.
 
And came at length to livid trees  
      where Ibo warriors
hung shadowless, turning in wind  
      that moaned like Africa,
 
Their belltongue bodies dead, their eyes  
      alive with the anger deep
in my own heart. Is this the sign,  
      the sign forepromised me?
 
The spirits vanished. Afraid and lonely  
      I wandered on in blackness.  
Speak to me now or let me die.
      Die, whispered the blackness.
 
And wild things gasped and scuffled in  
      the night; seething shapes
of evil frolicked upon the air.
      I reeled with fear, I prayed.
 
Sudden brightness clove the preying
      darkness, brightness that was  
itself a golden darkness, brightness
      so bright that it was darkness.
 
And there were angels, their faces hidden  
      from me, angels at war
with one another, angels in dazzling  
      combat. And oh the splendor,
 
The fearful splendor of that warring.
      Hide me, I cried to rock and bramble.  
Hide me, the rock, the bramble cried. . . .  
      How tell you of that holy battle?
 
The shock of wing on wing and sword  
      on sword was the tumult of  
a taken city burning. I cannot
      say how long they strove,
 
For the wheel in a turning wheel which is time  
      in eternity had ceased
its whirling, and owl and moccasin,
      panther and nameless beast
 
And I were held like creatures fixed  
      in flaming, in fiery amber.
But I saw I saw oh many of  
      those mighty beings waver,
 
Waver and fall, go streaking down
      into swamp water, and the water  
hissed and steamed and bubbled and locked  
      shuddering shuddering over
 
The fallen and soon was motionless.  
      Then that massive light
began a-folding slowly in
      upon itself, and I
 
Beheld the conqueror faces and, lo,  
      they were like mine, I saw
they were like mine and in joy and terror  
      wept, praising praising Jehovah.
 
Oh praised my honer, harshener
      till a sleep came over me,
a sleep heavy as death. And when
      I awoke at last free
 
And purified, I rose and prayed
      and returned after a time
to the blazing fields, to the humbleness.  
      And bided my time.
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