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Acres Of Hunger

After the flashlights sparkle on sweaty faces,
After the sudden tremor in the rugged hills;
Even gales wipe their faces dry-
The moos, wails…a bray, hiss…ssss, whine…
They scrabble for space in this wasteland,
A thunder of spring over distant mountains,
But here dry and sterile thunder without rains
Here there’s no water but dark boulders,
Strata of rocks piled over dark vista of cunning history

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