Robert Hayden's Epic of Community - African American poet

   That evening Sinda thought she heard the drums
   and hobbled from her cabin to the yard.
   The quarters now were lonely-still in willow dusk
   after the morning's ragged jubilo,
   when laughing crying singing the folks went off
   with Marse Lincum's soldier boys.
   But Sinda hiding would not follow them: those
   Buckras with their ornery
   funning, cussed commands, oh they were not
   the hosts the dream had promised her.
   and hope when these few lines reches your hand they will fine you well. I
   am tired some but it is war you know and ole jeff Davis muss be ketch an
   hung to a sour apple tree like it says in the song I seen some akshun but
   that is what i listed for not to see the sights ha ha More of our peeples
   coming every day the Kernul calls them contrybans and has them work aroun
   the Camp and learning to be soljurs. How is the wether home. Its warm this
   evening but theres been lots of rain
   How many times the dream had come to herb
   more vision than a dream--
   the greta big soldiers marching out of gunburst,
   their faces those of Cal and Joe
   and Charlie sold to the ricefields oh sold away
   a-many and a-many a long year ago.
   Fevered, gasping, Sinda listened, knew this was
   the ending of her dream and prayed
   that death, grown fretful and impatient, nagging her,
   would wait a little longer, would let her see.
   and we been marching sleeping too in cold rain and mirey mud a heap a
   times. Tell Mama Thanks for The Bible an not worry so. Did brother fix the
   roof yet like he promised? this mus of been a real nice place be-for the
   fighting uglied it all up the judas tree is blossomed out so pretty same as
   if this hurt and truble wasnt going on. Almos like something you mite dream
   about i take it for a sign The Lord remembers Us Theres talk we will be
   moving into Battle very soon agin
   Trembling tottering Hep me Jesus Sinda crossed
   the wavering yard, reached
   a redbud tree in bloom, could go no farther, clung
   to the bole and clinging fell
   to her knees. She tried to stand, could not so much
   as lift her head, tried to hold
   the bannering sounds, heard only the whippoorwills
   in tenuous moonlight; struggled to rise
   and made her way to the road to welcome Joe and Cal
   and Charlie, fought with brittle strength to rise.
   So pray for me that if the Bullit with my name rote on it get me it will
   not get me in retreet i do not think them kine of thots so much no need in
   Dying till you die I all ways rigger, course if the hardtack and the
   bullybeef do not kill me nuthing can i guess. Tell Joe I hav shure seen me
   some ficety gals down here in Dixieland & i mite jus go ahead an jump over
   the broomstick with one and bring her home, well I muss close with Love to
   all & hope to see you soon Yrs Cal.