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I want everybody here:
The living and the dead.
Not the dead as you might think:
Rotted and smelling of the grave.
Nor even as they were at the end
With the flames of their illusions
Dying in their eyes.
But as they really were.
As they sang and played on their guitars,
As they cooked great pots of food,
As they called across the clotheslines,
As they stood under the pale sky
And called their children to them.
Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Romero