An old man named Tom
Sang to her daughter in bed
While her hair wiped the surface
Of her heart
The dust on her face
He’d plunged her soft in his hands
And hold her
Till the morning sweeps
broom across their gate
Canticle of the dead
His voice would raise
And the sweet lips would turn the world
Secreted with heavenly whisper
By the foot of his crucifix
All eyes gaze more in his song
Telling history of love
That, that of a Mother’s face
MO.
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