Momma had a clothespin bag
Hanging from the line
Filled with old grey clothespins,
The wooden, springy kind,
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She lays upon the soiled sheets
I change her like a child
She looks up startled, she cannot speak,
But with a grateful smile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Writing in the rain again Dark nights seem to never end Electronically repent With a world wide web event Where we went off things we've dreamt When we wept-off tears we've kept For these dreams I haven't slept Not too many reach this depth When the Good become upset And the tape become cassette Everybody wants to shout it We just want to... write about it. P.X