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Sasha Moorsom (1931-1993)
What was so quiet a companion,
My dumb friend,
Now cries out, groans,
Swellls up with noxious fluid
Clamouring for attention.
Did I neglect you,
Taking for granted
The ease with which you walked, breathed,
Ran for a bus?
We that were one, are two.
I bow before you.
The Arts Bazaar 
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