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sorry poem

why then, must we see?
though i am little as all little things
there is a city, builded by no hand
as a naked man i go
this is the ship of pearl
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
stern cold man
my true love from her pillow rose
is there anybody there
braided and woven
i go my way complacently
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
i stand in the cold gray weather
i wonder where you live

 



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