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Friday, January 18, 2008

Sonnet XVIII

The afternoon is done, a bus I take.
The ride is dull, the same routine each day.
I take a book, and read the whole long way,
But time goes slowly past, unhurried still.

The bus has stopped, to drop some children off.
I see a car outside, and look within.
A baby, tucked inside, gives little grins,
Alone and quiet, small and vulnerable.

I wonder where the baby’s parents are.
Surrounded only by apartments there,
The child is lone, and still I mutely stare.
I wonder how this child will grow up.

This present world is cruel and cold and stark.
It’s truly sad how we must learn the truth.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!