We still had town squares,
gathered there in November,
a new mess declared.
The elders concurred,
we huddled, should have done more,
let her face sting us.
Established rapport
ignored our stiff injustice,
lost, we found our guilt.
We exchanged pictures
of the girl smiling, self-killed,
buried immature.
Once the tears had dried, we left,
her notes scattered, deaf, ink-wet.
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