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prose poetry

i said, i have shut my heart
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
of sun nor stars
do you hear the rain?
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
her face is fair and smooth and fine
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
the stars fell from heaven
i burn no incense
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
since i have felt the sense of death

 



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