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mom poem

i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
a thousand silent years ago
let me move slowly through the street
listen to the sounding sea
blossoms of babies
and my name is truthful
quietly, with reverance, in awe
had he and i but met
just as my fingers on these keys
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
those black eyes i once so praised
babylon-where i go dreaming
now while my lips are living
there was a strangeness on your lips

 



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