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funeral poem

in your arms was still delight
as evening falls
though love repine, and reason chafe
the air is full of dawn and spring
lady, your heart has turned to dust
we break the glass whose sacred wine
god
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
afraid no more, i say
under the harvest moon
to some the fat gods
as it
blossoms of babies
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst

 



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