Hands tired and worn,
a female with much scorn,
she will be torn,
from the shadows of time.
Some poems do not rhyme,
some have claimed mine,
they are running out of time,
for I refuse to be mimed.
Time as our enemy,
and water as our friend,
without both we do not live,
without one-blind.
Authority overpowers,
common people withdrawn,
the tables will one day turn,
where authority is not known.
Copyright 2003. All Rights Reserved.
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