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grandma poem

blossoms of babies
let me be sad
the agony of having too much power
leave the lovely words unsaid
perhaps it is no matter that you died
through the broad earth's aching breast
quietly, with reverance, in awe
backward, turn backward
why are the things that have no death
when i was broke in london
do not turn your head
earth travails
a flying word from here and there
simplicity

 



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