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baby poem

in an old chamber softly lit
all down the years
gaily through the fields we danced
the ancient songs
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
high walls and huge
full of tears
sadly speaking
she limps with halting painful pace
do not grieve that it is over
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
though i am little as all little things
listen

 



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