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family poem

a thousand silent years ago
there is no flock, however watched and tended
and so it goes
i know what you're going to say
my son is dead and i am going blind
do not grieve that it is over
he came and took me by the hand
listen
hang no wreath
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
i fill this cup
though i am little as all little things
who is the runner in the skies
in new york harbor

 



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