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mom poem

have we no shame?
why are the things that have no death
have you seen walking through the village
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
tell me not
the old west, the old time
glass-blower of time
pushing out, struggling vainly
in their ragged regimentals
when i returned at sunset
lo! 'tis a gala night
a thousand silent years ago

 



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