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Poetry

Bus of marigolds.
Caravan of peace.
Appeals.
Thousands of families divided
blow kisses.
Who is desperate to cross over.
Who must see his father’s grave.
Despite.
And painted right across the bus,
I broke the swords and made of them sickles,
from one of their poets, who
—you’ve heard this before, I’m sure—
is also one of our poets.


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