Unborn!
E
Eric Cockrell
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the last crow flying
o'er this desolate land,
his call of distress
falls on deafened ears...
pools of oil, coal dust clouds,
poisons sprayed over the fields....
faceless bodies walk desperate streets,
in search of bread, water, hope....
the profiteers laugh in druglike trance...
and the children die, unborn!
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