A baby perfect and happy as a doll
smiles back at me, lost under
leagues of confusion
outlawed like profanity
How is it that the roots of the oak
wither and rot so; and likewise
tree and it's fruit as well
when once, not so long ago,
unblemished was the seed that planted
Was it the scorching sun or
far too hesitant rains or perhaps
malnutrition supplied from suffering soil
Haunting is the baby, the doll--
a dream far out of reach
transplanted to be reaped by others
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