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The Cry of One Stolen From

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that echo

of silent air

 

hidden from the eyes
of the babbling any

 

but for you
who takes away

 

my shroud,
that unquiet reminder

 

of that air, silenced yet
my shroud, never

 

now hear me,
through its folds

 

and hear the silent air
which bore it

 

you, carrying my shroud,
you do not hear

 

(for it is silent)






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