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“This is not water running here,

These thick rebellious streams

That hurtle flesh and bone past fear

Down alleyways of dreams.

This is a wine that must flow on

Not caring how or where,

So it has ways to flow upon

Where song is in the air.

So it can woo an artful flute With loose, elastic lips,

Its Measurement of joy compute

with blithe, ecstatic hips.” – Harlem Wine, Countee Cullen.