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Fifty-three remains an open field,
Intimate with solitude and sky.
For her the child still lingers in the light,
There being wonder in the winds of why,
Yielding all of life that life can yield.
There are no memories that must be
sealed,
Holding tears too terrible to cry,
Resting places restless in the night.
Each ghost is hung out in the sun to dry,
Each wound recleansed until completely healed. |
