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The First Swansong

When everyone has gone
there is just a little girl left
so alone and tiny
alone in cold and windy.
Was she once pure
clean like made of a dream
innocent, not wounded
not touched
not sparked with words
only so pure
like newborn Dove
before she taste poppy seed
complicated, poisoned.
Before dawn was gone
short moment of purity of soul
second, a clue before dirt, hurt.
She sang her song once
waited for responce
she waited alone,
forgotten alone.
After her swansong she was gone.
Dove is gone.
Dove is free.
Dove is ash.

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Comments (1)

SANJA...A BEAUTIFUL PIECE OF PROSEWORK..NICE, TIGHT CONSTRUCTION STELLAR IMAGERY....NICE CASCADING CLOSE...GREAT WRITE! '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''~F. J. R.~''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''