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Sorry

 Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled; You gave me enough food To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault.
What should have gone on, Arrow aimed from a tried bow At a tried target, has turned back, Wounding itself With questions you had not asked.

Poem by R S Thomas
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