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Harlem

2014-11-02 18.22.08-4

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?

Langston Hughes, “Harlem” from Collected Poems.
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