A Magpie Calls
M
Mark Heathcote
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A magpie calls to my shuttered room.
He feels the cold January bloom.
But I care not that he is fed.
As long as my rhyme breaks the bread.
Who cares if our feathered friend lies dead?
Or whether these solemn words
are ever written to be read.
Or even recited in your head?
Bu şiiri puanla
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