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spanish poem

in halls of sleep you wandered by
perhaps it is no matter that you died
the sun is up
tell me
full of tears
the ships are lying in the bay
the poets tell
it tells of good old times
this ancient silver bowl of mine
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
the swan existing
and how could you dream of meeting
tell me not
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb

 



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