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DON'S SONG Down by the ghetto my friend lives small and quiet; illicitly growing brilliant rainbows on magical beanstalks, in liquid soil. Watered with carbon dioxide, twenty budding children; red and white-headed works of art. Underground masterpieces with odd numbered leaves; like Beethoven’s best symphonies- third, fifth, seventh and ninth... Human eyes feast and focus on this primped, plucked and pruned, determined perfection. A botanical thanksgiving for answered prayers. Just a few idyllic months of green-thumbed utopia; before the harvest- when all that is reaped, is the midnight fear of Gestapo nightmares, that become ghetto reality... |
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