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narrative poetry

beautiful
i heard the wind all day
some one complained to the master
now that i have cooled to you
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
look out upon the stars, my love
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
the agony of having too much power
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
i went up and down the streets
god
in his guarded tent

 



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