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74 Don Mattera Azanian Love Song Like a tall oak I lift my arms to catch the wind with bruised fingers and somewhere in the ghetto a child is born; a mother’s anxiety and pain hide in a forest of hope. Like a straight pine I point my finger at God counting a million scars on my dreams and somewhere in the ghetto a child is weeping; a woman writes her legacy on leaves of despair. Like a weeping willow I drop my soul into a pool of fire somewhere in a dark sanctuary I hear the sound of a freedom song: The child has risen and walks defiantly towards the lion’s lair undaunted, unafraid ...

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