Well, Lord, that’s three years gone, three years – gone. . . . Did I say three? No, four, four years And much, much more. But we won’t talk about it now, no, we won’t talk about it. Or think about it, now. It was – in a sense, is, and I still am, poor remnant me. I could bring you the pieces – I will bring you the pieces when I come visit you, Lord. Then I will ask, “Why?” It was. “Why?” – when I talk to you. I could ask you here, but would rather later very specially hold up the pieces. Let no one see the question or the pain, only pieces. Others can forget. And, as for me… let’s not talk about it now. (1970s ?) Comments are closed.
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Poems by Janet
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von Gumppenberg |
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