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kid poem

a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
the saddest of the year
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
if the red slayer think he slays
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
so lost
tripping up, falling down
skies they were ashen and sober
as a white candle
just now
see i give myself to you
have you heard

 



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