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family poem

world that changes under my hand
in and of itself
skies they were ashen and sober
i know not where
i went up and down the streets
when i returned at sunset
often is it not so?
it tells of good old times
i have had one fear in my life
i am the wind that wavers
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
the mountains they are silent folk
braided and woven

 



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