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 short poetry  short fiction   short...uh..art
 

 

     
  John Grey

Cleansing

 


Vast fields
and many rapes,
many murders,
are interred in their soil.
Sheep chew silently, dumbly,
on grass
as if there is no memory.
The young
clamor at their feet,
still learning
their submissiveness.
If you only knew
how savage,
how dangerous,
I want the lamb to be.

 

 

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