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The Things We Did,
All the Things that We Do

In Garsila, there are
Brick walls scarred black without
Roofs, metal cauldrons
Surrounded by piles of ash.
 
Good or bad or unforgivable,
The things we make and do
Always outlive us.
 
In Garsila, there are
No sounds, no use

For any of this.

This excerpt is from my debut poetry collection, The Things We Did, All the Things that We Do. ​

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