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His Country Is Calling Me
Libby Hart
And when I say his country,
I mean the sweet, sad earth of line and skin. Track of bone, of limb.
His country is calling me.
And when I say his country,
I mean that haunt of eyes, cliff of smile. Lea of uncut hair.
I mean blood roar. I mean lush beat.
Each hammer and drum.
Its heat -- a chant, a spell.
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