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mother poem

on and on
one with you
who will be naming the wind
the body may confine
desolate and lone
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
with lips blood red and heart of stone
i go my way complacently
some of the hurts you have cured
of sun nor stars
out of the deep and the dark
my true love from her pillow rose
at midnight
made up of loveliness alone

 



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