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black poetry

god
were it not for that singular smell
i wonder where you live
and how could you dream of meeting
afraid no more, i say
arched the flood
let me be sad
which keeps
the agony of having too much power
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
i loathed you
one by one, like leaves from a tree
and my name is truthful
there is a country full of wine

 



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