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A Silent Chorus of Anguish As the storm of war blew itself out, crowds of widows hurried along the rural road to the local train station. They came to meet their husbands due to be back home from war, even if only in their wives’ hopes and dreams. Crowds of widows are at the train station, on sun-hazed September afternoons, on frozen December evenings, on singing April mornings, on burning August days. Decades passed. The sun beats down on the old widows’ sticks and crooks – and wrinkly hands still waving to the trains.
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