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Kunama 1959


The Flight of the Swans


In the dark skies overhead,
To the swamps where they were bred,
The black swans fly on graceful wing,
Their plaintive song they softly sing.

Now, they know, the winter's past,
And all the swamps are full at last,
With the sound of gliding wing,
I hear them nightly in the Spring.

As I lie upon my bed,
The swish of wings pass overhead,
As on towards the swamps they fly,
Swift dark shadows o'er the sky.


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