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Claire Nicolas White


Where are the voices singing now
  that all is trapped in cell phones
held in hands, mouths closed, passive?
Where are the girls making up beds
in rooms behind windows, while singing
in harmony, songs from lost schools
about clover, doves and love
of course?  They had short hair
and white arms, or the ones that scrubbed
at the lavoir, slapping sheets on stones,
their voices in the air giving melody 
to water troughs, or the voice
of a young man walking in the mountains,
heard loud and clear, till it faded
    into the distance where
         it became an echo?


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