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The Thorn
The Thorn / Michael Kwack
It seemed a big bird had flown;
For, onto the desk of my own,
A feather was falling,
Through the air fluttering.
As if in a dream did I gaze:
A tiny bird it was!
I stretched an arm,
And the bird got on my palm.
The whole body, in bright gold,
Was the wing of this bird.
Should I hold it on my palm?
Let it go afloat in...
Wednesday 17th March 2021 2:06 pm
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