Birds

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Three birds fly high in the air.
     One is for Amy
     one beside it for Suzanne,
and the other that is with them
though a little apart
     must be for Arty
          who was not stabbed.

One lonely tear leaks and slides down my cheek
chest trembling under my shirt.
My head wants to swim
in spirals of madness
          because I don't know what kind of birds they are  .  .  .

All three lie dead,
              while three birds fly high in the air .  .  .

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