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footprint poem

still her gray rocks tower above the sea
a flying word from here and there
in their ragged regimentals
musing, between the sunset and the dark
why then, must we see?
in may
have you not heard
i make my shroud, but no one knows
risen from the dead
high walls and huge
i go my way complacently
our pleasant moments fly
which keeps
the snow whispers about me

 



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