A Georgia Song Maya Angelou

We swallow the odors of Southern cities,
Fat back boiled to submission,
Tender evening poignancies of
Magnolia and the great green
Smell of fresh sweat.
In Southern fields,
The sound of distant
Feet running, or dancing,
And the liquid notes of
Sorrow songs,
Waltzes, screams and
French quadrilles float over
The loam of Georgia.



Sing me to sleep, Savannah.



Clocks run down in Tara’s halls and dusty
Flags droops their unbearable
Sadness.