rolls its mournful, graveled voice,
there in the dust of Delta ways,
there on aí old board porch reachiní
through timeís forever.
In a drowsy land as low and dark
as blues itself,
a moan crawls slow
in its roll
onto summerís heavy breath.
A blue voice weaves,
through locust drone.
A blue voice floats
like smoke summoned to the riverís edge,
then nuzzles thick
into the father of rivers mighty mud.
A singer sways,
and births a thousand years into
a thousand tears
is the voice that yearns,
in its night of thickening heat
and glistening sweat
on aí old board porch in the Delta.
and show all Godís children how to cry.
Sing, blues, and let your trouble song
up high to Heavenís porch
on the banks of Sinless Sea.
Moan to the Father of Rivers,
and let Him hear your heart birthing
a thousand tears.
Let your blues weave with the hue of Heaven
shining through Godís buzz of star song.
The Father of Rivers embraces the blues,
when it carries you.
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