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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree


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Your fingerprints are all that’s left of you,
once pressed upon a window long ago;
and what’s become of us, I cannot know -
yet most of all, I wish your hands, anew,
around the house left dirty prints all smeared,
embracing favourite toys you never see.
Come cuddle up again on daddy’s knee,
to giggle at his silly tickling beard!
My son, I can’t explain about your mum,
for fear that it would hurt your little heart;
and yet the tragic truth is we’re apart –
her cold indifference has struck me dumb.
You should have been protected by the law -
but fathers’ words don’t matter any more.

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