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death poem

the little white prayers
thoughts through my head
a storm is riding on the tide
by the rude bridge
my soul is a dark ploughed field
i stood by the open casement
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
let me move slowly through the street
brother, i am fire
risen from the dead
i go my way complacently
why do you always stand there shivering

 



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