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death poetry

hang no wreath
in an old chamber softly lit
i loved a woman
did you ever hear of
the swan existing
eighty years have passed, and more
the fragrance came
my sorrow, when she's here with me
let us pity those who are better off than we are
and breaketh bread no more
from floor to ceiling
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
from our hidden places

 



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