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black poetry

it tells of good old times
a pen of steel
i was a goddess ere the marble found me
truely
perhaps it is no matter that you died
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
a little peach in the orchard grew
i hold your heart
long ago, in the young moonlight
be not angry with me
you are beautiful and faded
and how could you dream of meeting
i saw the clouds among the hills

 



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