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pretended to be soured by the hatred of others
saw small people from atop the mountain
wrote their stories cross legged on your straw mat
felt sorry for us
had every reason to
we lacked clarity
stumbled to the cabin drunk
brought city girls not good enough
called them brilliant names we didn't mean
never criticized
stayed in the distance
watched from your wine stained couch
steamed rice as we talked
the whistle of the pot
the start of a new morning
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