by Egon Lass

Created on: April 14, 2009

FINAL REFUGE

Who was this woman

That she must sail the wind

Cast high

By such rough hands?

Warped in barbed wire

Behind the iron door,

Is this the chimney

That will bare her soul?

Where moans have never

Respired across gray robes

With dying softness,

There the children

Rock her gently

In the whistling of the sky.

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