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by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Oh, Navé 
with tongue of silver
and of gold
how you spin
and weave
the weary words
your heartfelt song
morning stars sing together
above the Sangre de Cristos

Lo, the whirling dervish
of yourself has now subsided
with a certain grace
you have learnt
to embrace the sullen days
and the mountain
echoes back your name


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