Daughter of a Pretty Age
As the night twists
Unhappily like a knife
Into a vital organ,
All I can do is ask
Where is my daughter
Of a pretty age?
I’m cloaked in despair
And filled with rage.
I wish I could
Hold her hand
And talk in a secret place,
But I remember,
I’m childless
And finishing my course
In infinite loneliness.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
Added by Poetry Lover
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