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child poem

i shake my hair in the wind of morning
there is a city, builded by no hand
to be able to see every side of every question
my sorrow, when she's here with me
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
i am a woman
in all things not spoken of
tripping up, falling down
weak-winged is song
eighty years have passed, and more
world that changes under my hand

 



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