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mom poem

here lies a most beautiful lady
eighty years have passed, and more
burly, dozing humble-bee
just as my fingers on these keys
perhaps it is no matter that you died
pushing out, struggling vainly
you are clear
for then without
daughters of time
i saw with open eyes
i despise my friends more than you
take my bracelets
sun and wind and beat of sea
desolate and lone

 



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