The stinging of sunday afternoons in the air,
But also words of other days' wear,
Considering implications I sit and stare,
Blundering, wondering: should I care?
Childhood fears may be unaware,
Of what I do today (if I dare),
But is the pain– once too much to bear
That hasn't moved, cochineal mère,
Once so young, so happy, so fair,
I crave to ask the spirit twirling her hair,
I fear that, in your fate, I may share...

The End

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