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Smoke Signals

Time cares not what the clock will say
of the foul pit of yesterdays,
because a truth strikes its chord
against the weeping bells,
and all our hopeful praise goes upward
as the smoke on a winter’s chill;
Alas, our goodness goes in vain 
and all human kindness 
	Evaporates pure and plain 
when faced with men’s blindness
and the cold of being alone
in December when all that’s wanted is hope
and a friend up there to hear our moans
when we’re too tired to cope
and too weak to change.

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