Langston Hughes, ‘Harlem’
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry uplike a raisin in the sun?Or fester like a sore—And then run?Does it stink like rotten meat?Or crust and sugar over—like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Chosen by Elodie Rousselot.
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