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father poem

if i were very sure
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
that year
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
i can not tell you now
i am fevered
it was many and many a year ago
beneath the warrior's helm
all my love for my sweet
what shall we do now
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
in the sphere
to be able to see every side of every question

 



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