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A Widow And A Priest

A Widow and a Priest.

It was six in the morning I was on the roof terrace
smoking an illicit cigarette when the ambulance came
gliding into the hamlet, stopped outside Antonio’s
house and carried him out on a stretcher, his wife
came along too; Antonio saw me and feebly waved.
In the forenoon his wife was a widow and she cried.
The house was suddenly full of relative, most of them
women. Funereal at five that day, the widow had been

astute enough to have everything arranged beforehand,
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Jemarie Ragudo 13 December 2007

Strange how death affects us in different ways. Your poem is truly interesting.

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