Tea With The Mad Hatters

Late at night,

when I was a little girl, a blackbird would sing.

Late at night,

when the colored people would pray on the North Star,

that blackbird sang the blues.



One day,

the sun came, but the pond was frozen over.

One night,

the moon came, but that bird's voice had gone away

and so I sang the blues



Down South,

that blackbird belonged with a southern brass slave band.

Down South

that blackbird band leader was still singing the blues.

Down south is where I longed to be.



In my dreams,

those slaved bird's melodies unfolded into wings.

In my dreams,

those wings would fly me to sorrow and back again

and so I would sing the blues.



There is a place,

where blackbirds play the blues wishing they wern't so blue.

There is a place,

where bluebirds hear the blues wishing they were black so

they could sing the blues.

-Iliana Hagenah