I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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I rest upon the hand that carves the dawn,

From whose last page of history was born

A girl with no reflection from the past,

A woman now, a mother unsurpassed.

From pain and pleasure in the birthing room

These pyramid year’s her season to bloom;

And though her heart was victim to two griefs,

When from the family tree fell two strong leaves,

She walks a strand of proof to weave her light

Between the bands of falsehood that we might

Find solace in our own immortal space,

That never shall by distance be replaced.