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Sinking Prow
The children are born
And grow up
The palaces become old and commit suicides.
The water still perfumes the old bank’s forehead.
Over there, between the gardens
Are the oddments of the wheat and corn fields.
At the turn
On those banks that don’t age,
There is the sinking prow of a ship
That the soldiers were shoved in for death
Day after day without returning.
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