On the third day...deep in the night, the rain ceased. It ceased hammering on the roof, with tapping hammers from hell. It ceased building boats of our gypsy caravans. It ceased making lakes...with our tears, so that now we can sing our songs, but the moon cannot be found...is still not there, will not share her lamp with us. Her wires are down. There's always a reason.
Amen!
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
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