Songs of Anisha
“The Fly”
by William Blake
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly.
If I live,
Or if I die.
“Zebras,”
by Emuobome Jemikalajah
Black is the sadness of loss or pain
Or the hole not filled with happy things.
White is the sprinkle of joy,
No matter how little they come.
Our lives are layered pieces –
Tattered fabrics of contrasting
Colours in waft and weft-ward swim.
We are strips of colour
Walking slowly to our ends.
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