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Aya Gare
Poems
Aug 2010
That Sound
Heed to the comforts
Within the glow of plague
Compass the outskirts
With your elapsed face
Bring nothing
But a taste
Graze everything
Without a trace
Listen
To the whips of pace
To the rumble of roots
Drenched in pain.
Copyright © 2008 Aya Gare
Written by
Aya Gare
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