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poem for pastors

we lay
the saddest of the year
in the dark and peace of my final bed
the ancient songs
in halls of sleep you wandered by
are you alive?
if i should die, think only this of me
when night drifts along the streets of the city
night is dark, and the winter winds
i expect you
in september
i saw the clouds among the hills
pushing out, struggling vainly

 



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