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Updated: May 22, 2025
The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more than all others. That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence after you feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air. Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked the slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged.
They looked from their thresholds upon the flying train, with their hair unbraided and their garters ungyved, not a negro left to till the fields, nor a son or brother who had not travelled to the wars. They must be now hewers of wood, and drawers of water, and the fingers whereon diamonds used to sparkle, must clench the axe and the hoe.
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