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mother poem

my true love from her pillow rose
in mournful numbers
with joy and wonder
the long resounding marble corridors
is there anybody there
some of the hurts you have cured
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
uplifting, as the wind blew
truely
i had over-prepared the event
i think it just splendid
let a joy keep you
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow

 



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