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by Lesley Mellor

Tears of blood
fell on cold stone
and broke.
The well was dry
to the woman’s touch
but still red drops
seared down her face.
The drops formed a pool,
the pool became a lake.
White birds skimming low
across the lake
dipped their wings.

In the land of dust
and weeping
a terrible silence fell
when the laughter
of a child was stilled
and there are no more
white-winged birds.

    C Sydney 2011
    Lesley Mellor

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