Lockdown Poetry: Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes, ‘Harlem’

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up
      like 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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