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From this steppe of dearth
parched earth
and playing spoons
she swoons
in his mirth

With a clatter falls
his calls
and too late sees
she knees
behind shawls

Where once she would sleep
she weeps
too late a cry
with sigh
moves to reap

A pool of stale dream
no gleam
for heavy loss
and toss
all that seems

pale under this firm
full term
lies upon earth
gives birth
to a worm.