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There is a portrait, age-umbered, that I loved
on its walls;
Like a breath on a darkening ember,
There breathes on me the echoing theme
Of soft footfalls, dark floors that gleam;
And voices, almost familiar, that seem
To be calling me back from some lingering dream,
"Remember . . . Remember . . .
Remember?"
©Carolyn Bauman, 1966
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