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poem for pastors

among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
the agony of having too much power
soft as the bed in the earth
these be
pushing out, struggling vainly
lady, your heart has turned to dust
and my name is truthful
i had over-prepared the event
uplifting, as the wind blew
she heard the children playing in the sun
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb


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