truth
And if sun comes How shall we greet him? Shall we not dread him, Shall we not fear him After so lengthy a Session with shade?
Though we have wept for him, Though we have prayed All through the night-years— What if we wake one shimmering morning to Hear the fierce hammering Of his firm knuckles Hard on the door?
Shall we not shudder?— Shall we not flee Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter Of the familiar Propitious haze?
Sweet is it, sweet is it To sleep in the coolness Of snug unawareness.
The dark hangs heavily Over the eyes.
Gwendolyn Brooks, “truth” from Blacks. Copyright © 1987 by Gwendolyn Brooks.