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| 16 Nov 2014 03:20 PM |
Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door! |
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flamma
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| Joined: 21 Jun 2009 |
| Total Posts: 2742 |
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Zech9005
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| Joined: 03 Jul 2011 |
| Total Posts: 3417 |
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| 16 Nov 2014 03:52 PM |
Here's a better poem. And it's metaphorical.
For when a body dies one day, the tissues, muscles, organs stay, A man will find these things alone, and make them into all his own, because life goes on anyway.
If you can't see the metaphor in this, cri cri.
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