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EmmaLouise

  • Priceless

    She runs through the mud on the stagnant breeze that drags the wavering heat,along with the harsh suffering,and as she passes the ramshackle huts,cries of childbirth trickle throughthe wooden slats,ea

    • Poetry
    • Narrative
    1 min read


Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.
— Mark Strand