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the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
high walls and huge
though love repine, and reason chafe
daughters of time
from floor to ceiling
have you seen walking through the village
i cannot always feel his greatness
thoughts through my head
and my name is truthful
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
from our hidden places
in mournful numbers
as evening falls
the darkness

 



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