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May 2011
Scribbling that old rhyme on her metasoma,
she doesn’t command the piano anymore,
lost in those gusts that carry the clouds across distant soils

To figure out just how to back track,
forming a new set
of aspiring lungs.

Pale on the horizon, standing tall
she whispers now, continuously
hoping to never become a mother.
Ewelina Nowakowska
Written by
Ewelina Nowakowska  F/Pennsylvania
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