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autumn poetry

come down at dawn from windless hills
just now
glass-blower of time
my true love from her pillow rose
the air is like a butterfly
under a spreading chestnut tree
i heard the wind all day
the hypocritic days
let us express our baser passions
there is a country full of wine
i am fevered
for then without
glooms of the live-oaks
risen from the dead

 



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