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    Each morning I awake,
    And always I am glad,
    so gladness I ought not fake,
    for there's no reason to be sad,
    as far as I'm at home.

    Each term when I return,
    my joy I can't contain,
    all my worries I burn,
    and easy is peace to obtain,
    the reason is I'm at home.

    When I recall the trouble,
    and my most stupid mistake,
    I hardly ever fumble,
    and my shame doesn't wake,
    just because I'm at home.

    if elsewhere I will fear,
    but here I feel secure,
    here illness is so rare,
    and I know here lies my cure,
    for here is none other but home.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    ANT’s Poems (10)

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