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concrete poetry

a flying word from here and there
all my love for my sweet
perhaps it is no matter that you died
glooms of the live-oaks
i said
roses and gold
we break the glass whose sacred wine
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
those black eyes i once so praised
he speaks not well
when a deed is done for freedom
muffled drum's sad roll has beat

 



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