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   SNOW


   White blouses they wear
   In never-ending array,
   As here, there, all across the sky
   They surge through a confused
   Man-inhabited world.
  
   Not a smudge on their
   New-white clothes,
   They fly with the wind,
   Lightly, lightly,
   Mingling here, mingling there,
   Softly, softly,
   They stream through an overcrowded world.

   Down the white ladies stream,
   To light on the world, shed their white
   Clothes, die, disappear.
  
   That death may come thus to me,
   I pray, and looking up at the sky
   I see a woman.
   Our eyes once met
   In a Moroccan country market.
   An Arab woman,
   Beautiful face,
   Still deep in famine's grip.  

   Sad, plaintive, piteous
   Is the face of poverty
   In heaven, on earth,
   Wherever it is met.
   Woman, these bitter tears
   Are my only capital.

   All day long
   Snow falls into empty hands.


    
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