You sang, of being amongst the dust bowls
I write, of cornfields, sunbeams on the rapeseed, walks by streams and meadows, willows no longer for the weeping, fresh shoots, that reach up to the sky
You sang on, of having been brought through the great depression
I write on, of motor homes, jet-streams beyond the blue day, talk shows with entrepreneurs, moguls no longer there for the reaping, fresh shoots, that think they’ll never die
Your boy sang, he made it to the big time
As my mother’s son I write, of families tormented by suppression, repressed with hopes they could not call; the little girl skips, swings her pink handbag, thank heaven their souls eternally tried
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