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Poetry Contest for National Poetry Month


The Baby

The last train
left the station
just before 
the monsoon hit.

The rain hammers
high volume and
the trees bend,
beg to live.

From this wooden seat
in the empty station,
I can see you 
crawling towards me,
look up and smile.
I cry like rain.
There is no train
to take me to you.

Charlie Smith

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