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 Where the string
some point,
Was umbilical jazz,
Or perhaps,
In memory,
A long lost bloody cross,
Buried in some steel cavalry.
In what time For whom do we bleed, Lost notes, from some jazzman's Broken needle.
Musical tears from lost Eyes.
Broken drumsticks, why? Pitter patter, boom dropping Bombs in the middle Of my emotions My father's sound My mother's sound, Is love, Is life.

by Bob Kaufman
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