Cotton rows crisscross the world. And dead-tired nights of yearning. Thunderbolts on leather strops. And all my body burning. Sugar cane reach up to God. And every baby crying. Shame a blanket of my night. And all my days are dying
Maya AngelouAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: April 4, 1928
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I looked at her and sighed. In another world, I thought to myself, it might have worked. In another world, in another universe, in another time, as two quite different people, we really might have been able to put all of this behind us, take off to some sun-drenched Caribbean island, and have sex and pineapple juice, non-stop, for a year.
Hugh Laurie
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