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51 REFLECTION WITHOUT COLOR Black God on the black cross, white Christ upon the tree, Sloe-eyed God whose hands are yellow, Red Sun whom the red men follow, Brown-skinned Jesus by the sea, Who, in heaven, fashioned me? All my kind—in every land: members of a doubtful race, Who have never seen God’s image Crowned with stars or feathered plumage; Never seen His form or face Rising from the winds of space— In His image we were made. In His likeness formed divine. I am white, but you are yellow; You are gold, but I am sallow; Search the pale prismatic line— Is God’s color yours or mine? Then what substance are we of? Like to God’s and His unknown? Crystal blood? Transparent fiber? See the moonlight like a sabre Striking through our lucent bone— Striking through us, brush the stone. We are nothing; we are all—all whose pigments blend and fade. Where we walk no fern is bended; Through night’s claws we slip unwounded, Shadows passing into shade; In God’s image we are made— 52 Having neither shape nor color, Immaterial as light, And our only proof of living: Breath upon the mirror moving— On the mirror of the night. ...

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