Quivering
Quaking
She touches her hand
Strokes her hair of lightly falling waves
Her soul dances before us backwards and forwards
The view is inside little Liberty’s seven year-old journey.
It tells her
No
Not yet
Not one flower
Not one sigh of resignation.
Then we notice
She, the great-granddaughter
Has wrapped her body around
Her great-grandmother’s
Deathbed of raw pureness
We wait.
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