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anniversary poetry

the meadow was creeping
i make my shroud, but no one knows
why are the things that have no death
the hypocritic days
white foam flower, red flame flower
in the cloud-gray mornings
there is a city, builded by no hand
before the solemn bronze saint
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
made up of loveliness alone

 



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