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death poem

the rain was over, and the brilliant air
the arches of the red bridge
sad are they who know not love
dark-eyed
she said
i reside at table mountain
lady, your heart has turned to dust
eighty years have passed, and more
when the hours of day are numbered
all those treasures that lie
a pen of steel
when freedom from her mountain height
a flying word from here and there

 



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