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The Telegram
By Brenda Stevenson


I'm standing at the window,
telegram clutched in my hand,
How can it tell me you lie dead
In that foreign land.


I'm looking at our garden,
At the roses we planted with love and care,
How can I believe I'll never again
See you standing there.


Your face, your eyes, your smile,
Never again to see.
Oh, but tell me as you lay dying love,
Did you think of me?


Did you leave a breath behind you
To float homeward on the air?
Did you leave a piece of shadow
In the sundust over there?
Did you leave a teardrop to wing home
In a gentle shower of rain?
Did you send your very essence home,
Home to me again?


I'm standing at the window,
Telegram clutched in my hand.
How can it tell me you lie dead
In that foreign land?

 

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