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Don't miss me. I won't miss you.
Trickling onto a crumpled leaf
Comes black water, full of love and affection.
It flows from a rusty but sturdy pipe
Into the riverbeds of tenement houses.
Those people awake
And they feel a slow, sing‑song tingle down their spines.
Why is it?
A smile on their radiant faces, they know.
They are being called.
Home is their heart and they no longer need be . . .
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