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death poem

let us pity those who are better off than we are
there are gains for all our losses
up and down he goes
what spiteful chance steals unawares
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
as a naked man i go
my soul is a dark ploughed field
perhaps it is no matter that you died
there is no escape by the river
though i am little as all little things

 



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