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38 An Elderly Widow Tradition had robbed her life Tradition had robbed her education Tradition had robbed her income Tradition had robbed her voice Tradition had robbed her vitality Now, she sits on an old broken wicker chair, Art of his labor, like an ebony stub, Under a dark cloud of her living Gripped with a longing gaze Her heart thumps like an old clock’s ticking While her eyes keep vigil of the gate Forever hoping against hope that he’d return But he lies six feet under, undisturbed And she is alone, empty, defeated! ...

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