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the silent fields
wave
at me with golden fingertips.
they cry with the wind,
dry tears
like those I shed today
[they rolled down my face,
as hills cross the pale landscape,
but the burning of the sun
dried them
before they dropped off
my face
of the earth]
dry tears
that I won’t cry for you–
your fingertips may not wave
them away.
My golden heart turns blue
from the voice you use…
as silent as the fields.

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