His skin was black,
but with the purest soul,
white as the snow...

Yevtushenko (in a cable),
on the assassination of
Martin Luther King.

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Such a white soul, they say,
that noble pastor had.
His skin so black, they say,
his skin so black in color,
was on the inside snow,
a white lily,
fresh milk,
cotton.
Such innocence.
There wasn't one stain
on his impeccable interior
(in short a handsome find:
"The Black whose soul was white,"
that curiosity).

Still it might be said another way:
What a powerful black soul
that gentlest of pastors had.
What proud black passion
burned in his open heart.
What pure black thoughts
were nourished in his fertile brain.
What black love,
so colorlessly
given.
And why not,
why couldn't that heroic pastor
have a soul that's black?

A soul as black as coal.