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acrostic poem

friend, whose smile has come to be
and with the humming bird
the hypocritic days
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
my mother taught me that every night
under the harvest moon
when a deed is done for freedom
simply speaking
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
this ancient silver bowl of mine
gone before us
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong

 



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