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black poetry

sleep sweetly in your humble graves
long ago, in the young moonlight
it was many and many a year ago
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
i fill this cup
you are clear
daughter, thou art come to die
we lay
i had a dream and i awoke with it
i loathed you
why are the things that have no death
this is the song of youth
there is no escape by the river
when i returned at sunset

 



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