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suicide poem

he came and took me by the hand
the saddest of the year
a flying word from here and there
rising moon has hid the stars
i reside at table mountain
as it
i have to say good-night
there are gains for all our losses
no prey am i of poor thoughts
little gate was reached at last
with joy and wonder
one by one, like leaves from a tree
little park that i pass through
i am dying

 



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