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The Indian

By Wil C. Fry, Oct. 20, 2001, 13:30

Copyright © 2001 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.


Dark skin and ancient eyes
Hiding under bloody skies
No more tears he cries
Each broken day he dies



This is the first poem I wrote after being hired by the local newspaper, a job that eventually led to the tapering-off of my poetry-writing



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