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black poetry

we break the glass whose sacred wine
gaily through the fields we danced
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
the old songs
come down at dawn from windless hills
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
i know not where
truely
i stand in the cold gray weather
have you not heard
there were three in the meadow by the brook
under a spreading chestnut tree
for truth, for love

 



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