lirik lagu gwendolyn brooks - beverly hills, chicago
the dry brown coughing beneath their feet
(only for a while, for the handyman is on his way)
these people walk their golden gardens
we say ourselves fortunate to be driving by today
that we may look at them, in their gardens where
the summer ripeness rots. but not raggedly
even the leaves fall down in lovelier patterns here
and the refuse, the rеfuse is a neat brilliancy
when thеy flow sweetly into their houses
with softness and slowness touched by that everlasting gold
we know what they go to. to tea. but that does not mean
they will throw some little black dots into some water and add sugar and the juice of the cheapest lemons that are sold
while downstairs that woman’s vague phonograph bleats, “knock me a kiss.”
and the living all to be made again in the sweatingest physical manner
tomorrow. . . . not that anybody is saying that these people have no trouble
merely that it is trouble with a gold~flecked beautiful banner
n0body is saying that these people do not ultimately cease to be. and
sometimes their passings are even more painful than ours
it is just that so often they live till their hair is white
they make excellent corpses, among the expensive flowers. . .
n0body is furious. n0body hates these people
at least, n0body driving by in this car
it is only natural, however, that it should occur to us
how much more fortunate they are than we are
it is only natural that we should look and look
at their wood and brick and stone
and think, while a breath of pine blows
how different these are from our own
we do not want them to have less
but it is only natural that we should think we have not enough
we drive on, we drive on
when we speak to each other our voices are a little gruff
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