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DepartureBy Ana Prundau QuailBellMagazine.com  disarm chants to wing-less melodies little famines hover in the distance ash trees singing your song the catch and release of veiled fight companions
translates ghost whispers in the neck of people’s fears mix tinctures to soothe the torments of habit the graceful lights bless ordinary blue seek refuge in the storm cellars of your body take yourself out fall from the rhythm decades at the margins trickle back to your mother tongue CommentsComments are closed.
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