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Lips of the dead once thoughtlessly
whispered a single word on earth,
and, disproportionate, now each tree
has overdone its springtime birth.
Earth rips her bandages again.
She wants no healing. She wants pain.
Spring is not peace; it is not rest,
spring is enemy terrain.
If anyone could reach that goal,
young lovers could in one patrol:
forth we were sent to Rainbow land;
although we knew: the dead return;
although we knew: the storm is born
out of a young girl's open