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good bye poem

a thousand silent years ago
out of me unworthy and unknown
there is a city, builded by no hand
and breaketh bread no more
over the river they beckon to me
why are the things that have no death
three years ago today
full of tears
to clothe the fiery thought
i love my life, but not too well
little park that i pass through
city that is not a city
sun and wind and beat of sea

 



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