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lost love poem

three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
green afternoon serene and bright
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
my mother taught me that every night
city that is not a city
the swan existing
beneath the warrior's helm
there is a city, builded by no hand
since i have felt the sense of death
though love repine, and reason chafe
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
the agony of having too much power
there are gains for all our losses

 



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