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best friend poem

sleep, gray brother of death
sadly speaking
we who stood
i said, i have shut my heart
i make my shroud, but no one knows
the little white prayers
i saw him once before
let a joy keep you
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
there is a country full of wine
if i were very sure
once this soft turf
arched the flood
i do not pray for peace

 



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