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books I never even opened, music I neither played nor heard; you and your brothers and your sisters, you sent me maps of your homeland, pictures of your loved and lost ones, paintings of your dreams. but as the days shrugged off their names and the weeks filed past, staggered past like men in chains, you were sitting on your bunks among the spirits of the dead who consoled, ambiguously, Your day will come. |
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Contents by Contributor/Title | Contents by Genre |
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About Standards |
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