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haiku poem

as a white candle
beneath my window in a city street
the little white prayers
a flying word from here and there
i had over-prepared the event
their beautiful hair
now while my lips are living
it was the autumn of the year
perhaps it is no matter that you died
babylon-where i go dreaming
i make my shroud, but no one knows
in their ragged regimentals
some of the hurts you have cured

 



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