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POSTSCRIPT But their eyes are all white, without lashes and their arms are thin as reeds. Lord, not with these people. I've known the voices of children at dawn rushing down green slopes happy as bees, happy as butterflies with so many colors. Lord, not with these people, their voices don't even leave their mouths— they stay glued to their yellow teeth. Yours is the sea and the wind with a star hung in the firmament. Lord, they don't know that we are what we are able to be healing our wounds with herbs found on the green slopes, these slopes nearby, not any others; that we breathe as we are able to breathe with a little prayer each dawn that reaches the shore by crossing the chasms of memory— Lord, not with these people. Let your will be done in some other way. ii September '41 142 ...



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