| She walks in the cold dark hour before the morning
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| The hour when wounded night begins to bleed
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| Stands at the back of the patient queue
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| The silent almost sweeping queue
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| Seeing no one and not being seen
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| Working shoes are wrapped in working apron
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| Rolled in an oilcloth bag across her knees
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| The swaying tremor soaks the morning
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| Blue grey steely day is dawning
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| Draining the last few dregs of sleep away
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| Over the bridge and the writhing foul black water
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| Down through empty corridors of stone
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| Each of the blind glass walls she passes
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| Shows her twin in sudden flashes
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| Which is the mirror image, which is real?
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| Crouching hooded gods of word and number
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| Accept her bent-backed homage as their due
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| The buckets steam like incense coils
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| Around the endless floor she toils
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| Cleaning the same white sweep each day anew
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| Glistening sheen of new-washed floors is fading
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| There where office clocks are marking time
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| Night’s black tide has ebbed away
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| By cliffs of glass awash with day
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| She hurries from her labours still unseen
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| He who lies besides her does not see her
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| Nor does the child who once lay at her breast
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| The shroud of self-denial covers
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| Eager girl and tender lover
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| Only the faded servant now is left
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| How could it be that no one saw her drowning?
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| How did we come to be so unaware?
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| At what point did she cease to be her?
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| When did we cease to look and see her?
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| How is it no one knew that she was there? |