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One early morning
The market
Exploded,
Killing shoppers,
Dozens of innocents
As the town grieved,
The cellist stepped forward,
Vowing to play a day of
Music for each lost beloved
There he sat,
Crouched over his instrument,
Intense,
Tired lines from hardship
Carved on his face,
And yet
His music was pure love
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Alex
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Comments
Very forceful poem aclam | May 23rd, 2003
Thanks!
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