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Mother,
My father, ancestor;
I didn't ask you for
These trophies of your
Passing;
In the distant
River I caught
Those city skeletons
In their netted caravans
Rising,
And so I ran and cowered
Away
Into the mountain's
Berry vines;
I heard your wither wind
Coming,
All too cold and eager
To tell your children
What the bones
Say.
- 20/06/2009 07:35 - Mad, Beautiful
- 20/06/2009 07:29 - Seeking Grace




