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How Many

How many unsung cries

have poisoned days

before they even

reach the night?

Dearest one,

gift your tired tale

to the forbearing winds.

Let your tears fall

so they can rise up

into a cloud.

Mother Earth,

can you still hear

what penetrates the


star-starved nights?

An answer arises

in a leaf waving


but also hello,

to concepts of

living and dying.

Or in the subtle slinking

of the lunar-laced tides

appearing to come

only to go.

Dearest friend,

tip over your whistling,

worn-out kettle.

Thoughts ruled by


are layered with fiction,

like rooms of darkness

to the mind of a child.


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