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prose poetry

do the boys and girls still go
there is an hour of peaceful rest
i saw the clouds among the hills
thoughts through my head
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
he speaks not well
there is a city, builded by no hand
earth travails
perhaps
we lay
who will be naming the wind
i go my way complacently
often is it not so?
little gate was reached at last

 



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