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Dan Joyce Poem
A flower bloomed upon that hill,
and though it was so long ago,
and none but I remember still,
it felt the sun, and dared to grow,
and bare its face upon the sun,
a tender thing, not knowing night,
believing life already won,
it basked and bathed within the light.
That light has gone,
the sun forgot,
she loved me,
now she loves me not.
Copyright © Dan Joyce | Year Posted 2020
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