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A Prayer to Calliope

To write, they say,
Is to express the soul
But I can't breathe
Compressed by these
Whitewashed walls

And so am bound to fall on knees
To pray for a memory
Too far to touch, to
Color the white, to hide
The bitterness on my tongue

May it be enough
To remember
That old brick building
With walls that crumbled from the weight
Of generations of feet
On the old, soft floors



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