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About This Poem
Friday Night
The night is heavenly quiet,
Just its voice is heard,
What is the matter with everyone?
Are they in rapture with another world?
The streets are cold and empty,
bearing the sign of poverty.
The lamps hang motionless and dim,
struggling against the wind.
The naked trees groan quietly,
hoping to find some company,
though the night never changed,
it continues to bear its penalty.
©2013 Christine Phillips
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