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"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." Leonard Cohen

Sunday, December 7, 2014


The opposite of love, is it hate, she wonders
No - the baby, who can barely form thoughts
Knows only that she isn't loved, alone in her crib
In the orphanage with dozens of other babes

Some are screaming - not many actually
Some are sleeping, most are listless, staring
There is an eeriness about a roomful of infants
staring into space as if stunned into silence

They don't expect to be picked up, to be changed
They don't even expect to be fed;
For many hunger has passed its peak, now
food is just something that happens occasionally

These are children not even six months old
And already they have been conditioned to apathy

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