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teacher poem

this ancient silver bowl of mine
since i have felt the sense of death
little gate was reached at last
who will be naming the wind
grieve not for the invisible
i am dying
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
in the cloud-gray mornings
gone are the three, those sisters rare
very well, you liberals
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
give me hunger
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow

 



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