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grandmother poem

i despise my friends more than you
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
the air is like a butterfly
often is it not so?
i have to say good-night
there are gains for all our losses
long ago, in the young moonlight
i go my way complacently
all those treasures that lie
do you hear the rain?
brief on a flying night
it was the autumn of the year
i have cast the world


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