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memorial poem

i have heard them in the night
at midnight
the air is like a butterfly
what spiteful chance steals unawares
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
my true love from her pillow rose
braided and woven
just now
i do not pray for peace
from our hidden places
the arches of the red bridge
i saw with open eyes
now for a brisk and cheerful fight

 



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