What Her Girl Friend Said to the Foster-Mother -

Ainkurunuru 22, 24, 25, 26, 28, 29

In his fields, mother,

rain beats down,
sentinels watch.

Yet crabs cut down
the fresh white seedling.

She has lain long enough
on his chest,
her mound of love
is spotted:

why does your daughter
still grieve,

grow sallow?
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