And yet, I get up.

«You can write to me in history
With your bitter, crooked lies,
You can get around the mud
And yet, like dust … I get up.

Does my impudence bother you?
Why are you still there, sorry?
Because I walk
As if she owns oil wells
pumping in the room of my house …

As moons and as suns,
With the certainty of the tides,
Like hopes jumping high,
So … I get up.

Do you want to see me shattered?
crouching head and low eyes,
fallen shoulders like tears,
weakened by my disagreed crying.

My arrogance offends you?
Don’t take it so to chest,
Because I river as if I had gold mines
excavating in the same courtyard of my house.

You can shoot me with your words,
You can hurt me with your eyes,
You can kill me with your hatred,
And yet, like the air, I get up.

Does my sensuality bother you?
Does it arise as a surprise
that I dance as if I had diamonds
There, where are my thighs?

From the shame barracks of history
I get up
Since the past rooted in pain
I get up
I am a black ocean, broad and restless,
Managing
I extend, on the tide,
Leaving back nights of horror,
I get up,
to a wonderfully clear dawn,
I get up,
provided the gifts bequeathed by my ancestors.
I am the dream and hope of the slave.
I get up.
I get up.
I get up. «

Maya Angelou, was born on April 4, 1928, and died on May 28, 2014, with the black moon.

I read his book «I know why the Enjalauda bird sings» for the first time at age 17 and impacted me and inspired me a lot .. what a woman. Thanks for your vision.