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The River

The river used to store up in its mouth, Like betel nut, the red earth plunder of the north, Beyond the desperate sandbank's thunder, the current South from Mozambique blew hot and cold To break its nerve, the pressure grew Unbearably, one morning early, roused by the Hindu Temple bell, we heard the river roar To its death trampled in the bloody miles of sea.

ROY MACNAB

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