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footprint poem

now while my lips are living
he speaks not well
when a deed is done for freedom
darkest, strangest mystery
with lips blood red and heart of stone
let us pity those who are better off than we are
the ancient songs
blossoms of babies
stuff of the moon
she must go back, she said
the sun is up
softly weeping
calm as that second summer
in and of itself

 



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