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mother poem

in your arms was still delight
in an old chamber softly lit
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow
he came and took me by the hand
perhaps it is no matter that you died
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
i am singing to you
love me at last, or if you will not
beneath the warrior's helm
i am the wind that wavers
the saddest of the year

 



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