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The Crane
Once a week you fold yourself
 into a paper crane.
 
 When it is complete
 It leaps from unsteady hands
 And settle in my soft, white dress.
 I hold that crane until morning.
 
 Warm, afternoons
 I run and it flies beside me.
 Cold days spent at fireside.
 We smile, we laugh, we love
 And for a while
 
  it seems he will never end.
 
 Then the crane flies away
 For he belongs to a colorless world.
 My crane turns back into the boy
 And waits for Friday to come.
 Perhaps if we survive this a thousand  times
 we’ll never again.

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