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Mockingbird's Cry
I sit here under my sycamore tree
I wonder in time, what it will be?
Will in the time of my granddaughter’s sons
Will a rotting stump be all it becomes?
Will the air around me become still and dry?
Will the wind bear the sound of the mockingbirds’ cry?
Will the sun above be clouded with haze?
And will people thing longingly back to the days,
In which they wasted with all they were blessed
And left the consequences to all the rest.
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