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black poetry

sun stepped down from his golden throne
now while my lips are living
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
just as my fingers on these keys
have we no shame?
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
a storm is riding on the tide
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
to come so soon to this imagined dark
there were three in the meadow by the brook

 



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