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grandmother poem

the air is like a butterfly
under dusky laurel leaf
when night drifts along the streets of the city
i have heard them in the night
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
the light withdrawn
dark-eyed
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
you are beautiful and faded
my son is dead and i am going blind
rose and amber was the sunset on the river
sweet with fern and rose
a storm is riding on the tide

 



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