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Flight Up here am nobody. Pure as a green grasshopper. Have left everything. All my guilt's. Down under quilted clouds. Just self. Who is that? Nothing? No one to define me. Simple as before I lay in the womb; or later when earth and I share the same breath. This is heaven? I am not old, young, married, or single. No one has a hold on me. This cabin is pressurised. Heaven is only for a little time. If eternity ended I would say, Oh, that was so short. © Anne Le Marquand Hartigan |
From Beaver Row Press, Dublin,
1986 |
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