In a wilderness of reasons br not to write, he wrote. Just wrote. br Each word was the belief br in the possibility of the next. br He kept it going. br br Mostly his days and words talk br quietly, though he could rant and rage. br Mention is what his voices usually do br in a world of self-convinced noise. br br Truth mentioned is a sweet brass br note you’ll never forget. Writing, br Langston showed writing to be br an unashamed act, one of the few br in a shameful, shaming world. Words br br grin. Words reside. Words throw br a meal together for unexpected friends, br make a garden in front of a brownstone, br come back from long sea voyages br alive. Words aren’t everything, br are not the rent, often br may be only change left from br a last dollar spent in Paris or Reno. br br Morning: Hallelujah. br The world goes to its terrible work br of silencing souls. Out br of an open window comes a tapping— br the tick, the tack, the click and the clack, br Jack, of writing. And all those sorry rooftops br get red, get glad, get suave, get saved.