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short poem

for these white arms about my neck
the air is like a butterfly
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
i have seen the proudest stars
i can not tell you now
i have heard them in the night
and breaketh bread no more
the pale day drowses on the western steep
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
moonlight deep and tender
beside a stricken field
and so it goes
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong

 



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