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  • Death

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    An angels whisper, A baby's cry
    The clock will strike when dawn arrives
    Soon I will be saying good-bye
    Smell of rain with mornings light
    I cry to have this one last sight
    A whisper, a sigh
    one last kiss good-bye
    Then no sound I make
    for my hand death now takes.

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    Poetry is what is lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    beth2069’s Poems (4)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    My Death 0
    life in meaning 2
    Weeping Willow 2
    untitled 0