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acrostic poem

the swan existing
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
my true love from her pillow rose
under the harvest moon
beautiful, tragical faces
and still they walked on
white foam flower, red flame flower
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
bring me soft song
when i returned at sunset
your body's motion is like music
a mile behind
thoughts through my head

 



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