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A Bird That Sings
by Deborah Russell  

My poems perish with the fire - ashes,
trace elements like stars
flicker in the deep of night
You never understood my poems though
you sometimes pretended, enough
for me to believe
There is a bird that sings at night
I hear the lift of wings in flight
and the depth of silence
To a tree in bloom it is nothing, to one
who understands; it is all and everything
I create a wreath for ashes, tied
with the mystical flesh of a heart,
the love which imparts though never returns,
but, why should it?
I fill my eyes with sky - my ears with serenades,
I believe in love and a bird that sings at night . . .
All those dreams outside your dusty cage

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