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footprint poem

in his guarded tent
there by the window in the old house
the snow whispers about me
through the broad earth's aching breast
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
risen from the dead
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
desolate and lone
all my love for my sweet
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
if the red slayer think he slays
i saw god. do you doubt it?
night is dark, and the winter winds
i went up and down the streets

 



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