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21 July 2014

poem 21 July 2014

A soft flow of sweet milk drips down
from the vault of the sky,
from the stars

Onto the dry crust of thirsty bread
that is the baked earth,
the land.

I have kissed her cheek and her hand
and with my own hand
carressed her face

And numbered and named the celestial
bodies just to see the corners
of her pouting lips

Raise up like unattended balloons
with strings cut by jesters
and without anchors.

Then the drip of milk becomes a trickle
and the bread of the earth
cracks and crumbles

But the stars in the sky persist,
the stars forever flowing
and her lips rising.

RR Shea

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