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Swang

Listen to the cadence of the Elders
of  freshly felled trees
Torn asunder, branchless
breaks for cover

The village playground
was deserted
No Moon yet
just a swing
swang by a ghost of a child

Evenings our dull forms appear
We thirst
for the white waters
sweet like our childhood

Copyright © Antony Glaser

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Book: Reflection on the Important Things