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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 10-June 19:52:45 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 103793
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Words aren't good enough...
[time] => 2005-08-17 23:44:13
[hometext] => Sorry, I just can not think of a title.. please help... with that...
[bodytext] => I lived waist high in my family's world beneath silver on the oak and translucent china locked away. I moved like spring through dreaming autumn days, through winter nights when frost ferns greww on window panes and flowered a summer when we dropped from the greaan crannies of our oak to the castle keep of the air raid shelter behind the glass spiked walls of our own backyard.We lit small fires with stolen matcken, smoked cinnamon sticks made our oaths in the smell of cat in the chill damp dark. The girl who lived downstairs was older, all eyes, closed-curtain white, where we were dirt and scabbed brown knees. " Jew " they said. " From Germany " they said. She never played and her parents stood aside with averted eyes when we clattered past to stage our wars on the shelter roof The drapes would never open to the summer glory. I have wakened from the morning of my day; the minarets are mortar now and brick and I seein the dim despair behind the curtains her memories still lie bright and cruel as broken glass [comments] => 2 [counter] => 160 [topic] => 43 [informant] => Brandyx7 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 15 [ratings] => 3 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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