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She was a summer dance at the crossroads.
She was a card game where a nose was broken.
She was a song that nobody sings.
She was a house ransacked by soldiers.
She was a language seldom spoken.
She was a child's purse, full of useless things.

               -- from Death of an Irishwoman
                   by Michael Hartnett

                                   (read the entire poem)

Prints available soon