a window box of wood
in the industrial terraces
where ne’er a flower will ever grow
a child asks and it is made
a window box of wood
green
water is talked and risen
under the hillsides of a dull glow
that grows
in the furnace of a young boy’s mind
a heart is smelting
another kind of thing
do you know what he said
he said
i will not
i will not go
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