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 Blossoms of babies

Blinking their stories

Come soft

On the dusk and the babble;

Little red gamblers,

Handfuls that slept in the dust.

 Summers of rain,

Winters of drift.

Tell off the years;

And they go back

Who came soft—

Back to the sod,

To silence and dust;

Gray gamblers,

 Handfuls again.