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broken heart poem

a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
a flying word from here and there
and breaketh bread no more
i saw with open eyes
sun stepped down from his golden throne
like eagles on up high
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
at midnight
high-born race
those black eyes i once so praised
there are three ways in which men take
up and down he goes
when night drifts along the streets of the city

 



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