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growing old
The pillow queen stokes her empire
her quivering hand follows her letter
to all it may concern
cry in the dark
although she maybe strong,
made out of ploughshares
the sun still flickers
so much has gone already
and little is wept for
growing old
your strands of whitish hair
you may pray like a cygnet
but hopes are fenced
Copyright ©
Antony Glaser
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