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Poetry
Top voted Poetry
#10481voted by our readers
By CylasPalacios GOLD
Macomb, Illinois
Running through the fields, Bare feet; the time of my life, Why must this time end? The months of death: gone, The first flowers poke their heads through the white snow
Macomb, Illinois
Running through the fields, Bare feet; the time of my life, Why must this time end? The months of death: gone, The first flowers poke their heads through the white snow
