[AUTHENTICITY CERTIFIED: Text version below transcribed directly from audio.]
Mr. President and Mrs. Clinton, Vice-President and Mrs. Gore, and Americans everywhere:
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry
Of their sojourn here
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries
out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us
today, You may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the
A River sings a beautiful song,
It says, come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I
will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the Rock were one.
Before cynicism was a
bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
The River sang and sings on.
There is a true yearning
to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the
Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They all hear the speaking of the Tree.
They hear the first and
last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today.
Come to me, here, beside
Plant yourself beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of
On traveler, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers -- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab,
the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River,
I the Tree
I am yours -- your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you
have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again to the Dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Image Source: Wikipedia
Copyright Status: Text, Audio = Uncertain. Image = Public domain.