Martin Luether King

Sandpapering history,
Stood as his will, a man, dark
As honey, who tried to ferry
Across to the other shore,
One where there is no distinction
Of color or any utterance of slave names,
The oar, a dream was,
And every stroke that rippled and pushed,
On waters of the Mississippi,
Too rippled on pages of history,
Creasing time.

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