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Lament of the Morning Dove How I miss the morning dove mourner of the shank of evening of the fat flesh of twilight would you mourn for me here? Far from the stoic cliffs of clay crumbling off into forgetfulness and the neurotic augury of the wavesthe Lake of Sorrows where even the birds lament time seeping off into nothingness. But sadness here is a farce accompanied only by the bitter squawks of pigeons who have never seen the skies darken at noon while the ground is shred asunder by the gaping box of Hell. Nor have they ever pierced their breasts to slake the thirst of their pipping brood; and so can never moan your aria and let it float up to the open legs of Heaven. Let me float up with your song let me see the compassionate God, bending prone, let me shield my eyes, think of home if only through the echo of your grief. Adam Tod Leverton (atleverton@yahoo.ca)

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Adam Tod Leverton (atleverton@yahoo.ca)