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TO MY BABY


Don't bring your cares unto the gods.
my child;
The wind that blew the hair upon your
skull was no caress.
Oh, would that I were one to bless!
--But even were you heaven's own:
The infant cradled by the throne,
You'd still be born to scream and toss
Writhing on a wooden cross.

"glo-po" 2001


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