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The Gift from the Bad Fairy This is the curse, that we do not sleep and let the rose briars hide us, but our hope awakes each morning to be pricked. I sew this page, the needle hurts, is bone, is flesh, is permanent. If we could sleep, the future like a fairy prince suck out the dead bee’s mortal sting and change the world to roses… But it is, roses, every morning when we wake. I take my housework up again, and find again the secret thorn the sick rose nourished every day. What makes us think the heart breaks once? It breaks all day. It breaks like rain. All that I did not want to bear has to be borne, and what I mend has to be mended all over again. Do we learn to be glad there is still pain? The Poetry of M. Travis Lane / 29 ...

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