ISSN: 1941-4137 |
Volume Two Issue Two |
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Last Tree I remember ecstasies of rain, and ravens huddled on my shoulders. It was not so long ago — tomorrow sprouted from my lowest branch. Sky still turns around me, bringing in and bringing out the great golden mother. Now I have so little hunger for her milk. I grow thin and weary. Soon the wind will play me like a broken flute. |