Billie Holiday
I love you lady, singing velvet night sky,
singing azure violet wounded woolen stitch.
I love your lady quavering haunting cry,
intoning shades of purple in fevered pitch.
I love you lady, even trilling, scraping in torment,
your voice straining oppressed about strange fruit.
I love you lady dear star teaching your malcontent,
piping broken lyrics, imparting pain so acute.
I love you lady, you never knew a childhood,
you never rendered a cyan song the same way.
I love you lady, though you think my love no good,
it is you with whom I walk in the rain, preternatural every day.
Flame of Harlem, you gave so much to live. I listened, and I cried,
always my cherished one, so tragic how young you died.
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